THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

.  Ben  B.  Lindsey 


b 


Diane  of  the  Green  Van 


"  Excellency,  at  a  gentleman  who  is  not  <i 
it  behoove*  you  to  explain!''  '  l'<i<i<    • 


DIANE  OF  THE 
GREEN  VAN 


BY 

LEONA  DALRYMPLE 


"In  Arcadie,  the  Land  of  Hearte's  Desire, 
Letle  us  linger  whiles  with  Luveres  fond  ; 

A  sparklynge  Comedie  they  play e — with  Fire — 

Unwyttynge  Fate  stands  waytynge  with  hir  Wande." 


Illustrations   by    Reginald   Birch 


Chicago 
The  Reilly  &  Hritton  Co. 


Copyright,  1914, 

by 
The  Reilly  &  Britton  Co. 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Diane  of  the  Green  Van  was  awarded  the 
$10,000.00  prize  in  a  novel  contest  in  which 
over  five  hundred  manuscripts  were  submitted 


55-07 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  Of  a  Great  White  Bird  Upon  a  Lake       9 

II     An  Indoor  Tempest 17 

HI     A  Whim 24 

IV  The  Voice  of  the  Open  Country     .     .     30 
V  The  Phantom  that  Rose  from  the  Bot 
tle  .....     38 

VI     Baron  Tregar 46 

VII     Themar 55 

VIII     After  Sunset 60 

IX  In  a  Storm-Haunted  Wood     ...     64 

X     On  the  Ridge  Road 68 

XI  In  the  Camp  of  the  Gypsy  Lady     .     80 

XII     A  Bullet  in  Arcadia 90 

XIII  A  Woodland  Guest 97 

XIV  By  the  Backwater  Pool 105 

XV     Jokai  of  Vienna 113 

XVI  The  Young  Man  of  the  Sea     ...  125 

XVII  In  Which  the  Baron  Pays     ...  131 

XVIII     Nomads 138 

XIX     A    Nomadic   Minstrel 151 

XX  The  Romance  of  Minstrelsy     .     .     .  157 

XXI     At  the  Gray  of  Dawn 162 

XXII     Sylvan   Suitors 168 

XXIII  Letters 178 

XXIV  The  Lonely  Camper 183 

XXV     A  December  Snowstorm 194 

11G8254 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVI     An  Accounting 210 

XXVII  The  Song  of  the  Pine-Wood  Sparrow  £19 

XXVIII  The  Nomad  of  the  Fire-Wheel     .     .  225 

XXIX     The  Black  Palmer 236 

XXX     The  Unmasking 244 

XXXI     The  Reckoning 253 

XXXII     Forest  Friends 261 

XXXIII  By  the  Winding  Creek 269 

XXXIV  The  Moon  Above  the  Marsh     .     .     .278 
XXXV  The  Wind  of  the  Okeechobee     .     .     .284 

XXXVI     Under  the  Live  Oaks 290 

XXXVII     In  the  Glades 296 

XXXVIII     In  Philip's  Wigwam 304 

XXXIX  Under  the  Wild  March  Moon  ...  313 

XL     The  Victory 317 

XLI     In  Mic-co's  Lodge 324 

XLII  The  Rain  Upon  the  Wigwam  .     .     .333 

XLIII     The  Rival  Campers 340 

XLIV  The  Tale  of  a  Candlestick   ....  347 

XLV     The  Gypsy  Blood 363 

XLVI     In  the  Forest 368 

XLVII  "  The  Marshes  of  Glynn  "   .         .     .  377 

XLVIIt     On  the  Lake  Shore 388 

XLIX     Mr.  Dorrigan 396 

L  The  Other  Candlestick        ....  404 

LI     In  the  Adirondacks 411 

LII  Extracts  from  the  Letters  of  Norman 

Westfall 415 

LIII     By  Mic-co's  Pool 424 

LIV     On  the  Westfall  Lake 435 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  Excellency,  as  a  gentleman  who  is  not  a  coward  it 

behooves  you  to  explain."      .     .     .     Frontispiece 

Diane  swung  lightly  up  the  forest  path.  ...  80 
White  girl  and  Indian  maid  then  clasped  hands.  224< 
"  No,  I  may  not  take  your  hand." 320 


Diane  of  the  Green  Van 


CHAPTER  I 

OF  A  GREAT  WHITE  BIRD  UPON  A  T,AKK 

SPRING  was  stealing  lightly  over  the  Con 
necticut  hills,  a  shy,  tender  thing  of  delicate 
green  winging  its  way  with  witch-rod  over  the 
wooded  ridges  and  the  sylvan  paths  of  Diane 
Westf all's  farm.  And  with  the  spring  had  come 
a  great  hammering  by  the  sheepfold  and  the 
stables  where  a  smiling  horde  of  metropolitan 
workmen,  sheltered  by  night  in  the  rambling 
old  farmhouse,  built  an  ingenious  house  upon 
wheels  and  flirted  with  the  house-maids. 

Radiantly  the  spring  swept  from  delicate  shy 
ness  into  a  bolder  glow  of  leaf  and  flower.  Dog 
wood  snowed  along  the  ridges,  Solomon's  seal 
flowered  thickly  in  the  bogs,  and  following  the 
path  to  the  lake  one  morning  with  Rex,  a  favor 
ite  St.  Bernard,  at  her  heels,  Diane  felt  with  a 
thrill  that  the  summer  itself  had  come  in  the 
night  with  a  wind-flutter  of  wild  flower  and  the 
fluting  of  nesting  birds. 

The  woodland  was  deliciously  green  and  cool 


10         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

and  alive  with  the  piping  of  robins.  Over  the 
lake  which  glimmered  faintly  through  the  trees 
ahead  came  the  whir  and  hum  of  a  giant  bird 
which  skimmed  the  lake  with  snowy  wing  and 
came  to  rest  like  a  truant  gull.  Of  the  habits  of 
this  extraordinary  bird  Rex,  barking,  frankly 
disapproved,  but  finding  his  mistress's  attention 
held  unduly  by  a  chirping,  bright-winged  caucus 
of  birds  of  inferior  size  and  interest,  he  barked 
and  galloped  off  ahead. 

When  presently  Diane  emerged  from  the  lake 
path  and  halted  on  the  shore,  he  was  greatly  ex 
cited. 

There  was  an  aeroplane  upon  the  water  and 
in  the  aeroplane  a  tall  young  man  with  consid 
erable  length  of  sinewy  limb,  lazily  rolling  a 
cigarette.  Diane  unconsciously  approved  the 
clear  bronze  of  his  lean,  burned  face  and  his  eyes, 
blue,  steady,  calm  as  the  waters  of  the  lake  he 
rode. 

The  aviator  met  her  astonished  glance  with 
one  of  laughing  deference  even  as  she  marveled 
at  his  genial  air  of  staunch  philosophy. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  stammered  Diane,  "  but 
—  but  are  you  by  any  chance  waiting  —  to  be 
rescued  ? " 

"  Why  —  I  -  -  I  believe  I  am!  "  exclaimed  the 
young  man  readily,  apparently  greatly  pleased 


Of  a  Great  White  Bird          11 

at  her  common  sense.  "  At  your  convenience,  of 
course!  " 

"  Are  you  —  er  —  sinking  or  merely  there?  " 

"  Merely  here ! "  nodded  the  young  man  with 
a  charming  smile  of  reassurance.  "This  con 
traption  is  a  —  er — I  —  I  think  Dick  calls  it  an 
hydro-aeroplane.  It  has  pontoons  and  things 
growing  all  over  it  for  duck  stunts  and  if  the 
water  wasn't  so  infernally  still,  I'd  be  floating 
and  smoking  and  likely  in  time  I'd  make  shore. 
That's  a  delightful  pastime  for  you  now,"  he 
added  with  a  lazy  smile  of  the  utmost  good  hu 
mor,  "  to  float  and  smoke  on  a  summer  day  and 
grab  at  the  shore." 

"  I  was  under  the  impression,"  commented  Di 
ane  critically,  "that  in  an  hydro-aeroplane  one 
could  rise  from  the  water  like  a  bird.  I've  read 
so  recently." 

"One  can,"  smiled  the  shipwrecked  philoso 
pher  readily,  "  provided  his  motor  isn't  deaf  and 
dumb  and  insanely  indifferent  to  suggestion. 
When  it  grows  shy  and  silent,  one  swims  eventu 
ally  and  drips  home,  unless  a  dog  barks  and  a 
rescuer  emerges  from  the  trees  equipped  with 
sympathy  and  common  sense.  I've  a  mechani 
cian  back  there,"  he  added  sociably.  "He — he's 
in  a  tree,  I  think.  I  —  er — mislaid  him  in  a  very 
dangerous  air  current." 


12          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  Are  you  aware,"  inquired  the  girl,  biting  her 
lip,  "that  you're  trespassing?" 

"Lord,  no!"  exclaimed  the  aviator.  "You 
don't  mean  it.  Have  you  by  any  chance  a  repu 
table  rope  anywhere  about  you?  " 

"  No,"  said  Diane  maliciously,  "  I  haven't.  As 
a  rule,  I  do  go  about  equipped  with  ropes  and 
hooks  and  things  to  —  rescue  trespassing  hydro- 
aviators,  but  —  "  she  regarded  him  thoughtfully. 
"  Do  you  like  to  float  about  and  smoke? " 

The  sun-browned  skin  of  the  young  aviator 
reddened  a  trifle,  but  his  eyes  laughed. 

"  I'm  an  incurable  optimist,"  he  lightly  coun 
tered,  "  or  I  wouldn't  have  tried  to  fly  over  a 
private  lake  in  a  borrowed  aeroplane." 

"  I  believe,"  said  Diane  disapprovingly,  "  that 
you  were  cutting  giddy  circles  over  the  water  and 
dipping  and  skimming,  weren't  you?" 

"I  did  cut  a  monkeyshine  or  two,"  admitted 
the  young  man.  "  I  was  having  a  devil  of  a  time 
until  you  —  until  the  —  er  —  catastrophe  oc 
curred." 

"  And  Miss  West  fall,  the  owner,"  murmured 
Diane  with  sympathy,  "is  addicted  to  firearms. 
Hadn't  you  heard?  She  hunts!  The  Westfalls 
are  all  very  erratic  and  quick-tempered.  Didn't 
you  know  she  was  at  the  farm?  " 

The  young  man  looked  exceedingly  uncom 
fortable. 


Of  a  Great  White  Bird  13 

"  Great  guns,  no !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  pre 
sumed  she  was  safe  in  New  York.  .  .  .  And 
this  is  her  lake  and  her  water  and  her  waves,  when 
there  are  any,  and  no  matter  how  I  engineer  it, 
I've  got  to  poach  some  of  her  property.  Some 
of  it,"  he  added  conversationally,  "  is  in  my  shoe. 
Lord,  I  am  in  a  pickle!  Are  you  a  guest  of 
hers?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Diane  calmly. 

"  I'm  staying  over  yonder  on  the  hill  there  with 

Dick  Sherrill,"  offered  the  young  man  cordially. 

'  They  are  opening  their  place  with  a  party  of 

men,  some  crack  amateur  aviators  —  and  myself. 

Do  you  know  the  Sherrills  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  do,"  said  Diane  discouragingly. 
'  Why  didn't  you  float  about  and  smoke  on  Mr. 
Sherrill's  lake? "  she  added  curiously.  "  It's  ever 
so  much  bigger  than  this." 

"  Circumstances,"  began  the  young  man  with 
dignity,  and  lighted  another  cigarette.  "  My 
mechanician,"  he  added  volubly,  after  an  uncom 
fortable  interval  of  silence,  "  is  an  exceedingly 
bold  young  man.  He'll  fly  over  anything,  even 
a  cow.  Isn't  really  mine  either;  he's  borrowed, 
too.  Dick  keeps  a  few  extra  mechanicians  on 
hand,  like  extra  cigars.  It's  Dick's  fault  I'm  out 
alone.  He  lent  my  mechanician  to  another  chap 
and  nobody  else  would  come  with  me." 

"I    thought,"    flashed   Diane   pointedly,    "I 


14         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

thought  your  mechanician  was  somewhere  in  a 
tree." 

The  aviator  coughed  and  reddened  uncom 
fortably. 

"Doubtless  he  is,"  he  said  lamely.  "He  —  he 
most  always  is.  Do  you  know,  he  spends  a  large 
part  of  his  spare  time  in  trees  —  and  swamps  - 
and  once,  I  believe,  he  was  discovered  in  a  chim 
ney.  I  -  -  I'd  like  to  tell  you  more  about  him," 
he  went  on  affably.  "  Once  - 

'  Thank  you,"  said  Diane  politely,  "  but  you've 
really  entertained  me  more  now  than  one  could 
expect  from  a  gentleman  in  your  distressing 
plight.  Come,  Rex."  She  turned  back  again  at 
the  hemlocks  which  flanked  the  forest  path. 
"  I'll  ask  Miss  Westfall  to  send  some  men,"  she 
added  and  halted. 

For  Diane  had  surprised  a  look  of  such  keen 
regret  in  the  young  aviator's  face  that  they  both 
colored  hotly. 

"  Beastly  luck ! "  stammered  the  young  man 
lamely.  "  I  am  disappointed.  I  -  - 1  don't  seem 
to  have  another  match." 

"  Your  cigarette  is  burning  splendidly,"  hinted 
Diane  coolly,  "  and  you've  a  match  in  your 
hand." 

For  a  tense,  magnetic  instant  the  keen  blue 
eyes  flashed  a  curious  message  of  pleading  and 
apology,  then  the  aviator  fell  to  whistling  softly, 


Of  a  Great  White  Bird          15 

struck  the  match  and  finding  no  immediate  func 
tion  for  it,  dropped  it  in  the  water. 

"  I  don't  in  the  least  mind  floating  about,"  he 
stammered,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  silent  laugh 
ter,  "and  possibly  I'll  make  shore  directly;  but 
Lord  love  us!  don't  send  the  sharp-shooteress  — 
please !  Better  abandon  me  to  my  fate." 

Slim  and  straight  as  the  silver  birches  by  the 
water,  Diane  hurried  away  up  the  lake-path. 

"  The  young  man,"  she  flashed  with  a  stamp 
of  her  foot,  "  is  a  very  great  fool." 

"  Johnny,"  she  said  a  little  later  to  a  little,  be- 
whiskered  man  with  cheeks  like  hard  red  winter 
apples,  "  there's  a  sociable,  happy-go-lucky 
young  man  perched  on  an  aeroplane  in  the  mid 
dle  of  our  lake.  Better  take  a  rope  and  rescue 
him.  I  don't  think  he  knows  enough  about  aero 
planes  to  be  flying  so  promiscuously  about  the 
country." 

Johnny  Jutes  collected  a  band  of  enthusiasts 
and  departed. 

"  Nobody  there,  Miss  Diane,"  reported  young 
Allan  Carmody  upon  returning;  "leastwise  no 
body  that  couldn't  take  care  of  himself.  Only 
a  chap  buzzin'  almighty  swift  over  the  trees. 
Swooped  down  like  a  hawk  when  he  saw  us  an' 
waved  his  hand,  laughin'  fit  to  kill  himself,  an' 
dropped  Johnny  a  fiver  an'  gee!  Miss  Diane, 
but  he  could  drive  some!  Swift  and  cool-headed 


16         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

as  a  bird.  He's  whizzin'  off  like  mad  toward 
the  Sherrill  place,  with  his  motor  a-hummin'  an' 
a-purrin'  like  a  cat.  Leanish,  sunburnt  chap 
with  eyes  that  'pear  to  be  laughin'  a  lot." 

Diane's  eyes  flashed  resentfully  and  as  she 
walked  away  to  the  house  her  expression  was 
distinctly  thoughtful. 


CHAPTER  II 

AN   INDOOR   TEMPEST 

"TF  YOU'RE  broke,"  said  Starrett,  leering, 

•*•  "  why  don't  you  marry  your  cousin?  " 

Carl  Cranberry  stared  insolently  across  the 
table. 

"  Pass  the  buck,"  he  reminded  coolly.  "  And 
pour  yourself  some  more  whiskey.  You're  only 
a  gentleman  when  you're  drunk,  Starrett.  You're 
sober  now." 

Payson  and  Wherry  laughed.  Starrett,  not 
yet  in  the  wine-flush  of  his  heavy  courtesy, 
passed  the  buck  with  a  frown  of  annoyance. 

A  log  blazed  in  the  library  fireplace,  staining 
with  warm,  rich  shadows  the  square-paneled 
ceiling  of  oak  and  the  huge  war-beaten  slab  of 
table-wood  about  which  the  men  were  gathered, 
both  feudal  relics  brought  to  the  New  York  home 
of  Carl  Cranberry's  uncle  from  a  ruined  castle 
in  Spain. 

"If  you've  gone  through  all  your  money," 
resumed  Starrett  offensively,  "I'd  marry 
Diane." 

"Miss  Westfall!"  purred  Carl  correctively. 
'You've  forgotten,  Starrett,  my  cousin's  name 
is  Westfall,  Miss  Westfall." 

17 


18          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"Diane!"  persisted  Starrett. 

With  one  of  his  incomprehensible  whims,  Carl 
swept  the  cards  into  a  disorderly  heap  and 
shrugged. 

"  I'm  through,"  he  said  curtly.  "  Wherry,  take 
the  pot.  You  need  it." 

"Damned  irregular!"  snapped  Starrett 
sourly. 

"So?"  said  Carl,  and  stared  the  recalcitrant 
into  sullen  silence.  Rising,  he  crossed  to  the 
fire,  his  dark,  impudent  eyes  lingering  reflectively 
upon  Starrett's  moody  face. 

"  Starrett,"  he  mused,  "  I  wonder  what  I  ever 
saw  in  you  anyway.  You're  infernally  shallow 
and  alcoholic  and  your  notions  of  poker  are  as 
distorted  as  your  morals.  I'm  not  sure  but  I 
think  you'd  cheat."  He  shrugged  wearily.  "  Get 
out,"  he  said  collectively.  "  I'm  tired." 

Starrett  rose,  sneering.  There  had  been  a 
subtle  change  to-night  in  his  customary  attitude 
of  parasitic  good-fellowship. 

"I'm  tired,  too! ".he  exclaimed  viciously. 
"Tired  of  your  infernal  whims  and  insults. 
You're  as  full  of  inconsistencies  as  a  lunatic. 
When  you  ought  to  be  insulted,  you  laugh,  and 
when  a  fellow  least  expects  it,  you  blaze  and 
rave  and  stare  him  out  of  countenance.  And 
I'm  tired  of  drifting  in  here  nights  at  your  beck 
and  call,  to  be  sent  home  like  a  kid  when  your 


An  Indoor  Tempest  19 

mood  changes.  Mighty  amusing  for  us!  If 
you're  not  vivisecting  our  lives  and  characters 
for  us  in  that  impudent,  philosophical  way  you 
have,  you're  preaching  a  sermon  that  you  couldn't 
—  and  wouldn't  —  follow  yourself.  And  then  you 
end  by  messing  everybody's  cards  in  a  heap  and 
sending  us  home  with  the  last  pot  in  Dick  Wher 
ry's  pocket  whether  it  belongs  there  or  not.  I 
tell  you,  I'm  tired  of  it." 

Carl  laughed,  a  singularly  musical  laugh  with 
a  note  of  mockery  in  it. 

"Who,"  he  demanded  elaborately,  "who  ever 
heard  of  a  treasonous  barnacle  before?  A  bar 
nacle,  Starrett,  adheres  and  adheres,  parasite  to 
the  end  as  long  as  there's  liquid,  even  as  you 
adhered  while  the  ship  was  keeled  in  gold.  Nev 
ertheless,  you're  right.  I'm  all  of  what  you  say 
and  more  that  you  haven't  brains  enough  to 
fathom.  And  some  that  you  can't  fathom  is  to 
my  credit  —  and  some  of  it  isn't.  As,  for  in 
stance,  my  inexplicable  poker  penchant  for  you." 

To  Starrett,  hot  of  temper  and  impulse,  his 
graceful  mockery  was  maddening.  Cursing 
under  his  breath,  he  seized  a  glass  and  flung  it 
furiously  at  his  host,  who  laughed  and  moved 
aside  with  the  litheness  of  a  panther.  The  glass 
crashed  into  fragments  upon  the  wall  of  the 
marble  fireplace.  Payson  and  Wherry  hurriedly 


20         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

pushed  back  their  chairs.  Then,  suddenly  con 
scious  of  a  rustle  in  the  doorway,  they  all  turned. 

Wide  dark  eyes  flashing  with  contempt,  Diane 
Westfall  stood  motionless  upon  the  threshold. 
The  aesthete  in  Carl  thrilled  irresistibly  to  her 
vivid  beauty,  intensified  to-night  by  the  angry 
flame  in  her  cheeks  and  the  curling  scarlet  of  her 
lips.  There  were  no  semi-tones  in  Diane's  dark 
beauty,  Carl  reflected.  It  was  a  thing  of  sable 
and  scarlet,  and  the  gold-brown  satin  of  her 
gypsy  skin  was  warm  with  the  tints  of  an  autumn 
forest.  Carelessly  at  his  ease,  Carl  noted  how 
the  bold  eyes  of  the  painted  Spanish  grandee 
above  the  mantel,  the  mild  eyes  of  the  saint  in 
the  Tintoretto  panel  across  the  room  and  the 
flashing  eyes  of  Diane  seemed  oddly  to  converge 
to  a  common  center  which  was  Starrett,  white 
and  ill  at  ease.  And  of  these  the  eyes  of  Diane 
were  loveliest. 

With  the  swift  grace  which  to  Carl's  eyes 
always  bore  in  it  something  of  the  primitive, 
Diane  swept  away,  and  the  staring  tableau  dis 
solved  into  a  trio  of  discomfited  men  of  whom 
Carl  seemed  but  an  indifferent  onlooker. 

"Well,"  fumed  Starrett  irritably,  "why  in 
thunder  don't  you  say  something?" 

"  Permit  me,"  drawled  Carl  impudently,  with 
a  lazy  flicker  of  his  lashes,  "  to  apologize  for  my 
cousin's  untimely  intrusion.  I  really  fancied  she 


An  Indoor  Tempest  21 

was  safe  at  the  farm.  Unfortunately,  the  house 
belongs  to  her.  Besides,  your  crystal  gymnas 
tics,  Starrett,  were  as  unscheduled  as  her  arrival. 
As  it  is,  you've  nobly  demonstrated  an  unalter 
able  scientific  fact.  The  collision  of  marble  and 
glass  is  unvaryingly  eventful." 

Bellowing  indignantly,  Starrett  charged  into 
the  hallway,  followed  by  Payson.  Presently  the 
outer  door  slammed  violently  behind  them. 
Wherry  lingered. 

Carl  glanced  curiously  at  his  flushed  and  boy 
ish  face. 

"Well?"  he  queried  lightly. 

Wherry  colored. 

"Carl,"  he  stammered,  "you've  been  talking 
a  lot  about  parasites  to-night  and  I'd  like  you 
to  know  that  —  money  hasn't  made  a  jot  of  dif 
ference  to  me."  He  met  Carl's  laughing  glance 
with  dogged  directness  and  for  a  second  some 
thing  flamed  boyishly  in  his  face  from  which 
Carl,  frowning,  turned  away. 

"Why  don't  you  break  away  from  this  sort 
of  thing,  Dick?"  he  demanded  irritably.  "Star 
rett  and  myself  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  You're 
sapping  the  splendid  fires  of  your  youth  and 
inherent  decency  in  unholy  furnaces.  Yes,  I 
know  Starrett  drags  you  about  with  him  and 
you  daren't  offend  him  because  he's  your  chief, 
but  you're  clever  and  you  can  get  another  job. 


22          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

In  ten  years,  as  you're  going  now,  you'll  be  an 
alcoholic  ash-heap  of  jaded  passions.  What's 
more,  you  have  infernal  luck  at  cards  and  you 
haven't  money  enough  to  keep  on  losing  so  heav 
ily.  Half  of  the  poker  sermons  Starrett's  been 
growling  about  were  preached  for  you." 

Now  there  were  mad,  irreverent  moments  when 
Carl  Cranberry  delivered  his  poker  sermons  with 
the  eloquent  mannerisms  of  the  pulpit,  save,  as 
Payson  held,  they  were  infinitely  more  logical 
and  eloquent,  but  to-night,  husking  his  logic  of 
these  externals,  he  fell  flatly  to  preaching  an  un 
adorned  philosophy  of  continence  acutely  at  vari 
ance  with  his  own  habits. 

Wherry  stared  wonderingly  at  the  tall,  lithe 
figure  by  the  fire. 

"  Carl,"  he  said  at  last,  "  tell  me,  are  you  hon 
estly  in  earnest  when  you  rag  the  fellows  so 
about  work  and  decency  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing?" 

Carl  yawned  and  lighted  a  cigar. 

"I  believe,"  said  he,  "in  the  eternal  efficacy 
of  good.  I  believe  in  the  telepathic  potency  of 
moral  force.  I  believe  in  physical  conservation 
for  the  eugenic  good  of  the  race  and  mental  dom 
inance  over  matter.  But  I'm  infernally  lazy  my 
self,  and  it's  easy  to  preach.  It's  even  easier  to 
create  a  counter-philosophy  of  condonance  and 
individualism,  and  I'm  alternately  an  ethical  ego- 


An  Indoor  Tempest  23 

1st,  a  Fabian  socialist  and  a  cynic.  Moreover,  I'm 
a  creature  of  whims  and  inconsistencies  and 
there  are  black  nights  in  my  temperament  when 
John  Barleycorn  lightens  the  gloom;  and  there 
are  other  nights  when  he  treacherously  deepens 
it  —  but  I'm  peculiarly  balanced  and  subject  to 
irresistible  fits  of  moral  atrophy.  All  of  which 
has  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  soundness  of 
my  impersonal  philosophy.  Wherefore,"  with 
a  flash  of  his  easy  impudence,  "  when  I  preach,  I 
mean  it  —  for  the  other  fellow." 

Wherry  glanced  at  the  handsome  face  of  his 
erratic  friend  with  frank  allegiance  in  his  eyes. 

Carl  flung  his  cigar  into  the  fire,  poured  him 
self  some  whiskey  and  pushed  the  decanter  across 
the  table. 

"  Have  a  drink,"  he  said  whimsically. 

Dick  obeyed.  It  was  an  inconsistent  supple 
ment  to  the  sermon  but  characteristic. 

"Carl,"  he  said,  flushing  under  the  ironical 
battery  of  the  other's  eyes,  "  I  don't  think  I  un 
derstand  you- 

Carl  laughed. 

"  Nobody  does,"  he  said.    "  I  don't  myself." 


CHAPTER  III 

A    WHIM 

THE  fire  in  the  marble  fireplace  died  down, 
leaping  in  fitful  shadow  over  the  iron- 
bound  doors  riveted  in  nail-heads.  They  too  were 
relics  from  the  Spanish  castle  which  Norman 
Westfall  had  stripped  of  its  ancient  appurte 
nances  to  fashion  an  appropriate  setting  for  the 
beautiful  young  Spanish  wife  whose  death  at 
the  birth  of  Diane  had  goaded  him  to  suicide. 
That  Norman  Westfall  had  regarded  the  vital 
spark  within  him  as  an  indifferent  thing  to  be 
snuffed  out  at  the  will  of  the  clay  it  dominated, 
was  consistent  with  the  Westfall  intolerance  of 
custom  and  convention. 

By  the  fire  Carl  smoked  and  stared  at  the  dying 
embers.  For  all  his  insolent  habit  of  dominance 
and  mockery  he  was  keenly  sensitive  and  to-night 
the  significant  defection  of  Starrett  and  Pay- 
son  after  months  of  sycophantic  friendship,  had 
made  him  quiver  inwardly  like  a  hurt  child.  Only 
Wherry  had  stayed  with  him  when  his  career 
of  reckless  expenditure  had  arrived  at  its  inev 
itable  goal  of  ruin. 

There    remained,    financially,    what?    Barely 

24 


A  Whim  25 

four  thousand  a  year  in  securities  so  iron-bound 
by  his  mother's  will  that  he  could  not  touch  them. 

Black  resentment  flamed  hotly  up  in  his  heart 
at  the  memory  of  the  Westfall  custom  of  willing 
the  bulk  of  the  great  estate  to  the  oldest  son.  It 
had  left  his  mother  with  a  patrimony  which  Carl, 
inheriting,  had  chosen  contemptuously  to  regard 
as  a  dwarfish  thing  of  gold  sufficient  only  for 
the  heedless  purchase  of  one  flaming,  brilliant 
hour  of  life.  That  husbanded  it  might  purchase 
a  lifetime  of  gray  hours  tinged  intermittently 
with  rose  or  crimson,  Carl  had  dismissed  with  a 
cynical  laugh,  quoting  Omar  Khayyam. 

Starrett  had  sneeringly  suggested  that,  to  rem 
edy  his  fallen  fortunes  —  he  might  marry  Diane ! 
Carl  laughed  softly  but  recalling  suddenly  how 
Diane  had  looked  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway, 
the  flame  of  her  honest  anger  setting  off  her  prim 
itive  grace,  he  frowned  thoughtfully  at  the  fire, 
swayed  by  one  of  the  mad,  reckless  whims  which 
frequently  rocketed  through  his  brain  to  heed 
less  consummation.  Wherefore  he  presently  dis 
patched  a  servant  to  Diane  with  a  note  scribbled 
carelessly  upon  the  face  of  the  ace  of  diamonds. 

"May  I  see  you?"  it  ran.  "I  am  still  in  the 
library.  If  you  like,  I'll  come  up." 

She  came  to  the  library,  frankly  surprised. 
Carl  rarely  saw  fit  to  apologize  or  seek  advice. 

With  his  ready  gallantry,  habitually  colored 


26         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

by  a  subtle  sex-mockery,  Carl  rose,  drew  a  cliair 
for  her  and  leaned  against  the  mantel,  smiling. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  he  civilly,  "  I'm  sorry  Star- 
rett  so  far  forgot  himself." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Diane.  "  Bacchanalian  tab- 
leaus  are  not  at  all  to  my  liking." 

"  Nor  mine,"  admitted  Carl.  "  As  an  aesthete 
I  must  own  that  Starrett  is  too  fat  for  a  really 
graceful  villain.  I  fancied  you  were  indefinitely 
domiciled  at  the  farm.  Aunt  Agatha  has  been 
fussing — " 

"I  was,"  nodded  Diane.  "A  whim  of  mine 
brought  me  home." 

Carl  dropped  easily  into  a  chair  and  glanced  at 
his  cousin's  profile.  The  delicate  oval  of  her 
face  was  firelit ;  her  night-black  hair  one  with  the 
deeper  shadows  of  the  room.  There  was  mystery 
in  the  lovely  dusk  of  Diane's  eyes  —  and  discon 
tent —  and  something  mute  and  wistful  crying 
for  expression. 

"  I've  a  proposition  to  make,"  said  Carl  lightly. 
"It's  partly  commercial,  partly  belated  justice, 
partly  eugenic  and  partly  personal." 

'Your  money  is  quite  gone,  is  it  not?"  asked 
Diane,  raising  finely  arched  expressive  eyebrows. 

"  It  is,"  admitted  Carl  ruefully.  "  My  career 
as  a  bibulous  meteor  is  over.  Last  night,  after 
an  exquisite  shower  of  golden  fire,  I  came  tum 
bling  to  earth  in  the  fashion  of  meteors,  n  disil- 


A  Whim  27 

lusioned  stone.  In  other  words  —  stone  broke. 
May  I  smoke?" 

"Assuredly." 

Carl  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"And  the  proposition  which  is  at  the  same 
time  commercial,  eugenic  and  —  er  —  personal?" 
reminded  Diane  curiously.  Carl  ignored  the  deli 
cate  note  of  sarcasm. 

"  It  is  merely,"  he  said  with  a  flash  of  impu 
dence,  "  that  you  will  marry  me." 

Diane's  eyes  widened. 

"How  frankly  commercial!"  she  murmured. 

"Isn't  it?"  said  Carl.  "And  an  excellent  op 
portunity  for  belated  justice  as  well.  My  mother, 
save  for  our  infernal  Salic  law  of  inheritance, 
was  entitled  to  half  the  Westfall  estate." 

Diane  stared  curiously  at  the  fire-rimmed  hem 
of  her  satin  skirt.  There  was  something  of  Carl's 
lazy  impudence  in  the  arch  of  her  eyebrows. 

"  There  yet  remains  the  eugenic  inducement 
and,  I  believe,  a  personal  one! "  she  hinted. 

"Thank  heaven,"  exclaimed  Carl  devoutly, 
"that  we're  both  logicians.  The  eugenic  con 
sideration  is  that  by  birth  and  brains  and  breed 
ing  I  am  your  logical  mate." 

Diane's  eyes  flashed  with  swift  contempt. 

"  Birth ! "  she  repeated. 

The  black  demon  of  ungovernable  temper 
leaped  brutally  from  Carl's  eyes.  Leaning  for- 


28         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

ward  he  caught  the  girl's  hands  in  a  vicious  grip 
that  hurt  her  cruelly  though  for  all  her  swift 
color  she  did  not  flinch. 

"Listen,  Diane,"  he  said,  his  face  very  white; 
"  if  there  is  one  thing  in  this  rotten  world  of  cus 
tom  and  convention  and  immoral  morality  which 
I  honestly  respect,  it  is  the  memory  of  my  mother. 
Therefore  you  will  please  abstain  from  contemp 
tuous  reference  to  her  by  look  or  word." 

Diane  met  the  clear,  compelling  rebuke  of  his 
fine  eyes  with  unwavering  directness. 

"  My  mother,"  said  Carl  steadily,  "  was  a  fine, 
big,  splendid  woman,  unconventional  like  all  the 
Westfalls,  and  a  century  ahead  of  her  time. 
Moreover,  she  had  a  code  of  morality  quite  her 
own.  If  Aunt  Agatha's  shocked  sensibilities  had 
not  eliminated  her  from  your  life  so  early,  con 
tact  with  her  broad  understanding  of  things  would 
have  tempered  your  sex  insularity."  He  glanced 
pityingly  at  Diane.  *  You've  fire  and  vision, 
Diane,"  he  said  bluntly,  "but  you're  intolerant. 
It's  a  Westf  all  trait."  He  laughed  softly.  "How 
scornfully  you  used  to  laugh  and  jeer  at  boys, 
because  you  were  swifter  of  foot  and  keener  of 
vision  than  any  of  them,  because  you  could  leap 
and  run  and  swim  like  a  wild  thing!  Intolerance 
again,  Diane,  even  as  a  youngster!" 

He  rose  restlessly,  smiling  down  at  her  with 
a  lazy  expression  of  deference  in  his  eyes. 
"Wonderful,    beautiful    lady    of    fire    and 


A  Whim  29 

ebony! "  he  said  gently,  with  a  bewildering  change 
of  mood  which  brought  the  vivid  color  to  Diane's 
dark  cheek.  "  There's  the  wild,  sweet  wine  of  the 
forest  in  your  very  blood!  And  it's  always 
calling!" 

'Yes,"  nodded  Diane  wistfully,  "it's  always 
calling.     How  did  you  know?" 

"By  the  wizardry  of  eye  and  intuition!"  he 
laughed  lightly.  "And  the  personal  considera 
tion,"  he  added  pleasantly;  "  we've  come  at  last  to 
that." 

A  tide  of  color  swept  brightly  over  Diane's  face. 

"  Surely,  Carl,"  she  exclaimed  with  a  swift, 
level  glance,  "  you  don't  mean  that  you  care? " 

"  No,"  said  Carl  honestly,  "  I  don't.  I  mean 
just  this.  Will  you  permit  me  to  care  ?  To-night 
as  you  stood  there  in  the  doorway  I  knew  for  the 
first  time  that,  if  I  chose,  I  could  love  you  very 
greatly." 

"Love  isn't  like  that,"  flashed  Diane.  "It 
comes  unbidden." 

"  To  different  natures  come  different  dawnings 
of  the  immortal  white  fire ! "  shrugged  Carl.  "  My 
love  will  be  largely  a  matter  of  will.  I'm  armored 
heavily." 

"  For  a  golden  key ! "  scoffed  Diane,  rising. 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Carl  impudently,  "  it  was  well 
worth  a  try!  I'm  sure  I  could  love  with  all  the 
fiery  appurtenances  of  the  Devil  himself  if  I  shed 
the  armor." 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  OPEN  COUNTBY 

"  A   UNT  Agatha!"    Diane  rapped  lightly  at 

^T\.  her  aunt's  bedroom  door.  "Are  you 
asleep?" 

"No,  no  indeed!"  puffed  Aunt  Agatha  for 
lornly.  "  Certainly  not.  When  in  the  world  did 
you  come  back  from  the  farm,  child?  I've  wor 
ried  so !  And  like  you,  too,  to  come  back  as  unex 
pectedly  as  you  went."  She  opened  the  door 
wider  for  her  niece  to  enter.  "  But  as  for  sleep, 
Diane,  I  hope  I'm  not  as  callous  as  that.  I  shan't 
sleep  a  wink  to-night,  I'm  sure  of  it." 

Aunt  Agatha  dabbed  ineffectually  at  her 
round,  aggrieved  eyes. 

"  Carl's  a  terrible  responsibility  for  me,  Diane," 
she  went  on,  "  though  to  be  sure  there  have  been 
wild  nights  when  I've  put  cotton  in  my  ears  and 
locked  the  door  and  if  I'd  only  remembered  to  do 
that  I  wouldn't  have  heard  the  glass  crash  —  one 
of  the  Florentine  set,  too,  I  haven't  the  ghost 
of  a  doubt.  I  feel  those  things,  Diane.  Mamma, 
too,  had  a  gift  of  feeling  things  she  didn't  know 
for  sure — mamma  did!  —  and  the  servants  talk 
—  of  course  they  do!  —  who  wouldn't?  I  must 

so 


The  Voice  of  the  Open  Country  31 

say,  though,  Carl's  always  kind  to  me ;  I  will  say 
that  for  him  but  —  " 

The  excellent  lady  whose  mental  convolutions 
permitted  her  to  speculate  wildly  in  words  with 
the  least  possible  investment  of  ideas,  rambled 
by  serpentine  paths  of  complaint  to  a  conversa 
tional  cul-de-sac  and  trailed  off  in  a  tragic  sniff. 

Diane  resolutely  smothered  her  impatience. 

"I  —  I  only  ran  down  overnight,  Aunt 
Agatha,"  she  said,  "to — to  tell  you  some 
thing—'* 

'You  can't  mean  it!"  puffed  Aunt  Agatha 
helplessly.  "What  in  the  world  are  you  going 
back  to  the  farm  for?  Dear  me,  Diane,  you're 
growing  notional  —  and  farms  are  very  damp  in 
spring." 

Diane  walked  away  to  the  window  and  stood 
staring  thoughtfully  out  at  the  metropolitan  glit 
ter  of  lights  beyond. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Agatha!"  she  exclaimed  restlessly, 
"you  can't  imagine  how  very  tired  I  grow  of  it 
all  —  of  lights  and  cities  and  restaurants  and 
everything  artificial !  Surely  these  city  days  and 
nights  of  silly  frivolity  are  only  the  froth  of  life ! 
Have  you  ever  longed  to  sleep  in  the  woods,"  she 
added  abruptly,  "with  stars  twinkling  overhead 
and  the  moonlight  showering  softly  through  the 
trees?" 

"I'm  very  sure  I  never  have!"  said  Aunt 


32          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Agatha  with  considerable  decision.  "  And  it's 
not  at  all  likely  I  ever  shall.  There  are  bugs  and 
things,"  she  added  vaguely,  "and  snakes  that 
wriggle  about." 

"I've  always  wanted  to  lie  and  dream  by  a 
camp  fire,"  mused  Diane,  unconscious  of  a  cer 
tain  startled  flutter  of  Aunt  Agatha's  dressing 
gown,  "  to  hear  the  wind  rising  in  the  forest  and 
the  lap  of  the  lake  against  the  shore."  She 
wheeled  abruptly,  her  eyes  bright  with  excite 
ment.  "  And  I'm  going  to  try  it." 

"To  sleep  by  a  lake  in  springtime!"  gasped 
Aunt  Agatha  in  great  distress.  "  Diane,  I  beg  of 
you,  don't  do  it !  I  once  knew  a  man  who  slept  out 
somewhere — such  a  nice  man,  too! — and  some 
thing  bit  him — a  heron,  I  think,  or  a  herring. 
No!  It  couldn't  have  been  either.  Isn't  it  funny 
how  I  do  forget !  Strangest  thing!  But  to  sleep 
by  a  lake  in  springtime,  think  of  that ! " 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,  Aunt  Agatha!"  laughed 
Diane.  "  I  didn't  mean  quite  that.  I'm  merely 
going  back  to  the  Glade  farm  to-morrow  to  — 
she  glanced  with  furtive  uncertainty  at  her  aunt 
and  halted.  "  Aunt  Agatha,  I've  been  planning 
a  gypsy  cart!  There!  It's  out  at  last  and  I 
dreaded  the  telling!  When  the  summer  comes, 
I'm  going  to  travel  about  in  my  wonderful  house 
on  wheels  and  live  in  the  free,  wild,  open 
country!" 


The  Voice  of  the  Open  Country  33 

"I  can't  believe  itl"  said  Aunt  Agatha,  star 
ing.  "I  can't  —  I  won't  believe  it!" 

"Don't  be  a  goose!"  begged  the  girl  happily. 
"All  winter  the  voice  of  the  open  country  has 
been  calling — calling !  There's  quicksilver  in  my 
veins.  See,  Aunt  Agatha,  see  the  spring  moon 
—  the  '  Planting  Moon '  an  Indian  girl  I  used  to 
know  in  college  called  it !  How  gloriously  it  must 
be  shining  over  silent  woods  and  lakes,  flashing 
silver  on  the  pines  and  the  ripples  by  the  shore. 
And  the  sea,  the  great,  wide,  beautiful,  mysterious 
sea  droning  under  a  million  stars!" 

"Think  of  that!"  breathed  Aunt  Agatha  in 
credulously.  "  A  million  stars !  I  can't  believe  it. 
But  dear  me,  Diane,  there  are  seas  and  stars  and 
moons  and  things  right  here  in  New  York." 

With  a  swift  flash  of  tenderness  Diane 
slipped  her  arm  about  Aunt  Agatha's  perturbed 
shoulders. 

'You're  not  going  to  mind  at  all!"  she  whee 
dled  gently.  "  I'm  sure  of  it.  I'd  have  to  go  any 
way.  It's  in  my  blood  like  the  hint  of  summer  in 
the  air  to-night." 

Aunt  Agatha  merely  stared.  The  Westfalls 
were  congenital  enigmas. 

"  A  gypsy  cart ! "  she  gurgled  presently,  rising 
phoenix-like  at  last  from  a  dumb-struck  supine- 
ness.  "A  gypsy  cart!  Well!  A  wheelbarrow 


84         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

wouldn't  have  surprised  me  more,  Diane,  a  wheel 
barrow  with  a  motor  1 " 

"Don't  you  remember  Mrs.  Jarley's  wagon?" 
reminded  Diane.  "  It  had  windows  and  cur 
tains—" 

"  Surely,"  broke  in  Aunt  Agatha  with  strained 
dignity,  "  you're  not  going  in  for  waxworks  like 
Mrs.  Jarley!" 

"Dear,  no!"  laughed  Diane,  with  a  sparkle  of 
amusement  in  her  eyes.  "  There  are  so  many  wild 
flowers  and  birds  and  legends  to  study  I  shouldn't 
have  time!" 

"Great  heavens,"  murmured  Aunt  Agatha 
faintly,  "  my  ears  have  gone  queer  like  mother's." 

"And  maybe  I'll  not  be  back  for  a  year," 
offered  Diane  calmly.  "I  can  work  south 
through  the  winter — " 

Aunt  Agatha  fell  tragically  back  in  her  chair 
and  gasped. 

"Didn't  we  take  a  whole  year  to  motor  over 
Europe? "  demanded  Diane  impetuously.  "  And 
that  was  nothing  like  so  fascinating  as  my  gypsy 
house  on  wheels." 

"  If  I  could  only  have  looked  ahead ! "  breathed 
Aunt  Agatha,  shuddering.  "If  only  I  could  have 
foreseen  what  notions  you  and  Carl  were  fated 
to  take  in  your  heads,  I'd  have  refused  your 
grandfather's  legacy.  I  would  indeed.  Here  I 
no  more  than  get  Carl  safely  home  from  hunting 


The  Voice  of  the  Open  Country  35 

Esquimaux  or  whatever  it  was  up  there  by  the 
North  Pole — walravens,  wasn't  it,  Diane?  — 
well,  walrus  then !  —  than  you  decide  to  become 
a  gypsy  and  sleep  by  a  lake  in  springtime  under 
a  planting  moon  and  stay  outdoors  all  winter, 
collecting  birds,  when  I  fancied  you  were  safely 
launched  in  society  until  you  were  married." 

"But  Aunt  Agatha,"  flashed  the  girl,  "I'm 
not  at  all  anxious  to  marry." 

Aunt  Agatha  burst  into  a  calamitous  shower  of 
tears. 

"  Aunt  Agatha,"  said  Diane  kindly,  "  why  not 
remember  that  you're  no  longer  burdened  with  the 
terrible  responsibility  of  bringing  Carl  and  me 
up?  We're  both  mature,  responsible  beings." 

Aunt  Agatha  dabbed  defiantly  at  her  eyes. 

"  Well,"  she  said  flatly,  "  I  shan't  worry,  I  just 
shan't.  I'm  past  that.  There  was  a  time,  but  at 
my  time  of  life  I  just  can't  afford  it.  You  can  do 
as  you  please.  You  can  go  shoot  alligators  if  you 
want  to,  Diane,  I  shan't  interpose  another  objec 
tion.  But  the  trials  that  I've  endured  in  my  life 
through  the  Westfalls,  nobody  knows.  I  was  a 
cheerful,  happy  person  until  I  knew  the  West- 
falls.  And  your  father  was  notional  too.  I  was 
a  Gregg,  Diane,  until  I  married  your  uncle — he 
wasn't  really  your  uncle,  but  a  sort  of  cousin  — 
and  the  Greggs,  thank  heavens!  are  mild  and 
quiet  and  never  wander  about.  Dear  me,  if  a 


36          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Gregg  should  take  to  sleeping  by  a  lake  in  spring 
time  under  a  planting  moon,  I  would  be  surprised, 
I  would  indeed !  There  was  only  one  in  our  whole 
family  who  ever  galloped  about  to  any  extent  — 
Uncle  Peter  Gregg — and  you  really  couldn't 
blame  him.  Bulls  were  perpetually  running  into 
him,  and  once  he  fell  overboard  and  a  whale  chased 
him  to  shore.  Isn't  it  funny?  Strangest  thing! 
But  there,  Diane,  I  wonder  your  poor  dear  grand 
father  doesn't  turn  straight  over  in  his  grave  — 
I  do  indeed.  Many  and  many  a  time  your  poor 
father  tried  him  sorely  —  and  Carl's  mother  too." 
Aunt  Agatha  sniffed  meekly. 

"Will  you  go  alone?"  she  ventured,  wiping 
her  eyes. 

"  Bless  your  heart,  Aunt  Agatha,  no ! "  laughed 
Diane  radiantly.  "  I'm  going  to  take  old  Johnny 
Jutes  with  me!" 

Diane  kissed  her  aunt  lightly  on  the  forehead. 

"  Well,"  said  Aunt  Agatha  in  melancholy  resig 
nation,  "if  you  must  turn  gypsy,  my  dear,  and 
wander  about  the  country,  Johnny  Jutes  is  the 
best  one  to  go  along.  He's  old  and  faithful  and 
used  to  your  whims  and  surely  after  thirty  years 
of  service,  he  won't  break  into  tantrums." 

Silver-sweet  through  the  quiet  house  came  the 
careless  ripple  of  a  flute,  showering  light  and 
sensuous  music.  There  was  a  dare-devil  lilt  and 


The  Voice  of  the  Open  Country  37 

sway  to  the  flippant  strains  and  Aunt  Agatha 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  Diane,"  she  whispered,  shuddering, 
"when  he  plays  like  that  he  drinks  and  drinks 
and  drinks  until  morning." 

"  Poor  Aunt  Agatha! "  said  the  girl  pityingly. 
"  What  troublesome  folk  we  Westf alls  are !  And 
I  no  less  than  Carl." 

"  No,  no,  my  dear! "  murmured  Aunt  Agatha. 
"It's  only  when  Carl  plays  like  that  —  that  I 
grow  afraid." 

Aunt  Agatha  went  to  bed  to  listen  tremblingly 
while  the  dare-devil  dance  of  the  flute  tripped 
ghostlike  through  the  corridors.  And  falling 
asleep  with  the  laughing  demon  of  wind  and 
melody  cascading  wildly  through  the  mad  scene 
from  Lucia,  she  dreamt  that  Carl  had  captured 
an  Esquimau  with  his  flute  and  weaving  a  suit 
of  basket  armor  for  him,  had  dispatched  him  by 
aeroplane  to  lead  Diane's  gypsy  cart  into  the 
Everglades  of  Florida,  the  home-state  of  Nor 
man  Westf  all  until  his  ill-fated  marriage. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  PHANTOM  THAT  ROSE  FKOM  THE  BOTTLE 

THE  demon  of  the  flute  laughed  and  fell 
silent.  The  house  grew  very  quiet.  A  fresh 
log  built  its  ragged  shell  of  color  within  the  library 
and  Carl  drank  again  and  again,  watching  the 
play  of  firelight  upon  the  amber  liquor  in  his 
glass.  It  pleased  him  idly  to  build  up  a  phil 
osophy  of  whiskey,  an  impudent,  fearless  reverie 
of  fact  and  fancy. 

"  So,"  he  finished  carelessly,  "  every  bottle  is  a 
crystal  temple  to  the  great  god  Bacchus  and  who 
may  know  what  phantom  lurks  within,  ready  to 
rise  and  grow  from  the  fumes  of  its  fragrant  in 
cense  into  a  nebulous  wraith  of  gigantic  propor 
tions.  Many  a  bottle  such  as  this  has  made  history 
and  destroyed  it.  A  sparkling  essence  of  tears 
and  jest,  of  romance  and  passion  and  war  and  gro- 
tesquerie,  of  treachery  and  irony  and  blood  and 
death,  whose  temper  no  man  may  know  until  he 
tests  it  through  the  alchemy  of  his  brain  and 
soul!" 

To  Starrett  it  gave  a  heavy  courtesy;  to  Payson 
a  mad  buffoonery;  to  Wherry  pathos;  to  Carl 
himself — ah!  —  there  was  the  rub!  To  Carl  its 
message  was  as  capricious  as  the  wind  —  a  moon- 

38 


The  Phantom  from  the  Bottle    39 

mad  chameleon  changing  its  color  with  the  fickle 
light.  And  in  the  bottle  to-night  lay  a  fierce, 
unreasoning  resentment  against  Diane. 

"  Fool ! "  said  Carl.  "  One  mad,  eloquent  lie  of 
love  and  she  would  have  softened.  Women  are  all 
like  that.  Tell  me,"  Carl  stared  whimsically  into 
his  glass  as  if  it  were  a  magic  crystal  of  revela 
tion,  "why  is  it  that  when  I  am  scrupulously 
honest  no  one  understands?  .  .  .  Why  that 
mad  stir  of  love-hunger  to-night  as  Diane  stood 
in  the  doorway?  Why  the  swift  black  flash  of 
hatred  now?  Are  love  and  hatred  then  akin? " 

The  clock  struck  three.  Carl's  brain,  flaming, 
keen,  master  of  the  bottle  save  for  its  subtle 
inspiration  of  wounded  pride  and  resentment, 
brooded  morosely  over  Diane,  over  the  defection 
of  his  parasitic  companions,  over  the  final  leap 
into  the  abyss  of  parsimony  and  Diane's  flash  of 
contempt  at  the  mention  of  his  mother.  Half 
of  Diane's  money  was  rightly  his  —  his  mother's 
portion.  And  he  could  love  vehemently,  cleanly, 
if  he  willed,  with  the  delicate  white  fire  which 
few  men  were  fine  enough  to  know.  ...  In 
the  soft  hollow  of  Diane's  hand  had  lain  the 
destiny  of  a  man  who  had  the  will  to  go  unerringly 
the  way  he  chose.  .  .  .  Love  and  hunger — 
they  were  the  great  trenchant  appetites  of  the 
human  race :  one  for  its  creation,  the  other  for  its 
perpetuation.  .  .  .  To  every  man  came  first 


40         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

the  call  of  passion ;  then  the  love-hunger  for  a  per 
fect  mate.  The  latter  had  come  to  him  to-night 
as  Diane  stood  in  the  doorway,  a  slender,  vibrant 
flame  of  life  keyed  exquisitely  for  the  finer, 
subtler  things  and  hating  everything  else. 

Still  he  drank,  but  the  fires  of  hell  were  rising 
now  in  his  eyes.  There  was  treachery  in  the  bottle. 
.  .  .  Diane,  he  chose  to  fancy,  had  refused 
him  justice,  salvation,  respect  to  the  memory  of 
his  mother!  .  .  .  So  be  it!  .  .  .  His  to 
wrench  from  the  mocking,  gold-hungry  world 
whatever  he  could  and  however  he  would.  .  .  . 
Only  his  mother  had  understood.  .  .  .  And 
Diane  had  mocked  her  memory.  Still  there  had 
been  thrilling  moments  of  tenderness  for  him  in 
Diane's  life.  .  .  .  But  Diane  was  like  that 

—  a  flash  of  fire  and  then  bewildering  sweetness. 
There  was  the  spot  Starrett's  glass  had  struck ; 

there  the  ancient  carven  chair  in  which  Diane 
had  mocked  his  mother;  there  was  red  —  blood- 
red  in  the  dying  log — and  gold.  Blood  and  gold 

—  they  were  indissolubly  linked  one  with  the  other 
and  the  demon  of  the  bottle  had  danced  wild 
dances  with  each  of  them.    A  mad  trio!    After 
all,  there  was  only  one  beside  his  mother  who  had 
ever  understood  him  —  Philip  Poynter,  his  room 
mate  at  Yale.    And  Philip's  lazy  voice  somehow 
floated  from  the  fire  to-night. 

"  Carl,"  he  had  said,  "  you've  bigger  individual 


The  Phantom  from  the  Bottle    41 

problems  to  solve  than  any  man  I  know.  You 
could  head  a  blood  revolution  in  South  America 
that  would  outrage  the  world;  or  devise  a  hellish 
philosophy  of  hedonism  that  by  its  very  ingenuity 
would  seduce  a  continent  into  barking  after  false 
gods.  You've  an  inexplicable  chemistry  of  un 
governable  passions  and  wild  whims  and  you  may 
go  through  hell  first  but  when  the  final  test  comes 
-you'll  ring  true.  Mark  that,  old  man,  you'll 
ring  true.  I  tell  you  I  know!  There's  sanity  and 
will  and  grit  to  balance  the  rest." 

Well,  Philip  Poynter  was  a  staunch  optimist 
with  oppressive  ideals,  a  splendid,  free-handed 
fellow  with  brains  and  will  and  infernal  persis 
tence. 

Four  o'clock  and  the  log  dying!  The  city  out 
side  was  a  dark,  clinking  world  of  milkmen  and 
doubtful  stragglers.  Carl  finished  the  whiskey 
in  his  glass  and  rose.  His  brain  was  very  drunk 
-that  he  knew — for  every  life  current  in  his 
body  swept  dizzily  to  his  forehead,  focusing 
there  into  whirling  inferno,  but  his  legs  he  could 
always  trust.  He  stepped  to  the  table  and  lurched 
heavily.  Mocking,  treacherous  demon  of  the 
bottle!  His  legs  had  failed  him.  Fiercely  he 
flung  out  his  arm  to  regain  his  balance.  It  struck 
a  candelabrum,  a  giant  relic  of  ancient  wood  as 
tall  as  himself.  It  toppled  and  fell  with  its  can 
dled  branches  in  the  fire.  Where  the  log  broke 


42          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

a  flame  shot  forth,  lapping  the  dark  wood  with 
avid  tongue.  With  a  crackle  the  age-old  wood 
began  to  burn. 

Carl  watched  it  with  a  slight  smile.  It  pleased 
him  to  watch  it  burn.  That  would  hurt  Diane, 
for  everything  in  this  beautiful  old  Spanish  room 
linked  her  subtly  to  her  mother.  Yes,  it  would 
hurt  her  cruelly.  Beyond,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  stood  a  mate  to  the  burning  candlestick, 
doubtless  a  silent  sentry  at  many  a  drinking  bout 
of  old  when  roistering  knights  gathered  about 
the  scarred  slab  of  table-wood  beneath  his  fingers. 
A  pity  though!  Artistically  the  carven  thing 
was  splendid. 

Cursing  himself  for  a  notional  fool,  Carl 
jerked  the  candlestick  from  the  fire  and  beat  out 
the  flames.  The  heavy  top  snapped  off  in  his 
hands.  The  falling  wood  disclosed  a  hollow  re 
ceptacle  below  the  branches  ...  a  charred 
paper.  Well,  there  was  always  some  insane 
whim  of  Norman  WestfalTs  coming  to  light 
somewhere  and  this  doubtless  was  one  of  them. 

The  paper  was  very  old  and  yellow,  the  hand 
writing  unmistakably  foreign.  French,  was  it 
not?  The  firelight  was  too  fitful  to  tell.  Carl 
switched  on  the  light  in  the  cluster  of  old  iron 
lanterns  above  the  table  and  frowned  heavily 
at  the  paper.  No,  it  was  the  precise,  formal 
English  of  a  foreigner,  with  here  and  there  a 


The  Phantom  from  the  Bottle    43 

ludicrous  error  among  the  stilted  phrases.  And 
as  Carl  read,  a  gust  of  wild,  incredulous  laughter 
echoed  suddenly  through  the  quiet  room.  Again 
he  read,  cursing  the  dizzy  fever  of  his  head. 
Houdania!  Houdania!  Where  was  Houdania? 
Surely  the  name  was  familiar.  With  a  super 
human  effort  of  will  he  clenched  his  hands  and 
jaws  and  sat  motionless,  seeking  the  difficult  boon 
of  concentration.  Out  of  the  maelstrom  of  his 
mind  haltingly  it  came,  and  with  it  memory  in 
panoramic  flashes. 

Once  more  he  heard  the  clatter  of  cavalry  gal 
loping  up  a  winding  mountain  road  to  a  gabled 
city  whose  roofs  and  turrets  glinted  ruddily  in 
the  westering  sun.  There  had  been  royalty 
abroad  with  a  brilliant  escort,  handsome,  dark- 
skinned  men  with  a  lingering  trace  of  Arab  about 
the  eyes,  who  galloped  rapidly  by  him  up  the 
winding  road  to  the  little  kingdom  in  the  moun 
tains.  Houdania!  —  yes  that  was  it — of  course. 
Houdania!  A  Lilliputian  monarchy  of  ardent 
patriots.  There  had  been  a  flaming  sunset  be 
hind  the  turrets  of  a  castle  and  he  had  climbed  up 
— up — up  to  the  gabled  kingdom,  seeking,  away 
from  the  track  of  the  tourist,  relief  from  the 
exotic  gayety  of  his  rocketing  over  Europe.  And 
high  above  the  elfin  kingdom  on  a  wooded  ravine 
where  a  silver  rivulet  leaped  and  sang  along  the 


44          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

mountain,  a  gray  and  lonely  monastery  had  of 
fered  him  a  cell  of  retreat. 

Houdania!  Yes,  he  had  found  Houdania. 
Philip  Poynter  had  told  him  of  the  monastery 
months  before.  Philip  liked  to  seek  and  find 
the  picturesque.  Thus  had  he  come  into  Andorra 
in  the  Pyrenees  and  Wisby  in  the  Baltic.  And 
he  —  Carl  —  had  found  Houdania.  But  what  of 
it  ?  Ah,  yes,  the  burning  candlestick  —  the  paper 
-the  paper!  And  again  a  gust  of  laughter 
drowned  the  fitful  crackle  of  the  fire.  There 
was  gold  at  his  hand — great,  tempting  quanti 
ties  of  it! 

"  When  the  test  comes,  you'll  ring  true,"  came 
the  crackle  of  Philip's  voice  from  the  fire.  "  Mark 
that,  old  man,  you'll  ring  true.  I  tell  you,  I 
know."  Well,  Philip  Poynter  was  his  only 
friend.  But  Philip  was  off  somewhere,  gone 
out  of  his  life  this  many  a  day  in  a  characteristic 
burst  of  quixotism. 

Carl  laughed  and  shuddered.  For  a  mad 
instant  he  held  the  tempting  yellow  paper  above 
the  fire  —  and  drew  it  back,  stared  at  the  charred 
candlestick  and  laughed  again — but  there  was 
nothing  of  laughter  in  his  eyes.  They  were 
darkly  ironic  and  triumphant.  There  was  blood 
in  the  fire  —  and  gold  —  and  Diane  had  mocked 
his  mother.  With  a  groan  Carl  flung  his  arms 
out  passionately  upon  the  table,  torn  by  a  con- 


The  Phantom  from  the  Bottle     45 

flict  of  the  strangely  warring  forces  within  him. 
And  with  his  head  drooping  heavily  forward  upon 
his  hands  he  lay  there  until  the  melancholy  dawn 
grayed  the  room  into  shadowy  distinctness,  his 
angle  of  vision  twisted  and  maimed  by  the  demon 
of  the  bottle.  The  candlestick  loomed  strangely 
forth  from  the  still  grayness;  the  bottle  took 
form;  the  yellowed  paper  glimmered  on  the 
table.  Carl  stirred  and  a  spasm  of  mirthless 
laughter  shook  him. 

"So,"  he  said,  "Philip  Poynter  loses  —  and  I 
—  I  write  to  Houdania!" 

So  from  the  bottle  rose  a  phantom  of  glitter 
ing  gold  and  temptation  to  grow  in  time  to  a 
wraith  of  gigantic  proportions.  In  the  bottle 
to-night  had  lain  tears  and  jest  and  love  unend 
ing,  romance  and  passion,  treachery  and  irony  — 
blood  and  the  shadow  of  Death. 


CHAPTER  VI 

BARON  TREGAE 

LILAC  and  wistaria  flowered  royally.  Car 
penter,  wheelwright  and  painter  departed. 
The  trim  green  wagon,  picked  out  gayly  in  white, 
windowed  and  curtained  and  splendidly  equipped 
for  the  fortunes  of  the  road,  creaked  briskly 
away  upon  its  pilgrimage,  behind  a  pair  of  big- 
boned  piebald  horses  from  the  Westfall  stables, 
with  Johnny  at  the  reins.  On  the  seat  beside  him 
Diane  radiantly  waved  adieu  to  her  aunt,  who 
promptly  collapsed  in  a  chair  on  the  porch  and 
dabbed  violently  at  her  eyes. 

"  I  shall  never  get  over  it,'*  sniffed  Aunt  Aga 
tha  tragically.  "Carl  may  say  what  he  will,  I 
never  shall.  But  now  that  I've  come  up  here  to 
see  her  off,  I've  done  my  duty,  I  have  indeed. 
And  I  do  hope  Carl  hasn't  any  wild  ideas  for 
the  summer  —  I  couldn't  stand  it.  Allan,  as 
long  as  Miss  Diane  is  camping  within  reasonable 
distance  of  the  farm,  you'd  better  take  the  run 
about  each  night  and  find  her  and  see  if  she's  all 
right  —  and  brush  the  snakes  and  bugs  and  things 
out  of  camp.  If  everything  wild  in  the  forest 
collected  around  the  camp  fire,  like  as  not  she 
wouldn't  see  them  until  they  bit  her." 

46 


Baron  Tregar  47 

The  boy  shifted  a  slim,  bare  leg  and  sniggered. 

"  Miss  Westf  all,"  he  said, "  Miss  Diane  she  says 
she's  a-goin'  to  a  spot  by  the  river  and  camp  a 
week  an' —  an'  if  she  finds  anybody  a-f ollerin'  or 
spyin'  on  her  from  the  farm,  she'll  skin  him  alive 
an' — an'  them  black  eyes  o'  her'n  snapped  fire 
when  she  said  it.  An'  Johnny,  he's  got  weepons 
'nough  with  him  to  fight  pirutes." 

Aunt  Agatha  groaned  and  rocking  dolorously 
back  and  forth  upon  the  porch  reviewed  the  ca 
lamitous  possibilities  of  the  journey. 

But  the  restless  young  nomad  on  the  road 
ahead,  sniffing  the  rare,  sweet  air  of  early  sum 
mer,  had  already  relegated  the  memory  of  her 
long-suffering  aunt  to  the  forgotten  things  of 
civilization.  For  the  summer  world,  sweet  with 
the  scent  of  wild  flowers,  was  very  young,  with 
young  leaves,  young  grass  and  flowering,  sun- 
warm  hedges,  and  beyond  the  Sherrill  place  on 
the  wooded  hill,  the  sun  flamed  yellow  through 
the  hemlocks. 

"Oh,  Johnny  Jutes!  Oh,  Johnny  Jutes!" 
sang  the  girl  happily,  with  the  color  of  the  wild 
rose  in  her  sun-brown  cheeks.  "It's  good — it's 
good  to  be  alive!" 

With  a  chuckle  of  enthusiasm  Johnny  cracked 
his  whip  and  opined  that  it  was. 

Now  even  as  the  great  green  van  rolled  forth 
upon  the  country  roads,  bound  for  an  idyllic 


48         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

spot  by  the  river  where  Diane  had  planned  to 
camp  a  week,  two  men  appeared  upon  the  wide, 
white-pillared  Sherrill  porch,  smoking  and  idly 
admiring  the  bluish  hills  and  the  rolling  mead- 
owlands  below  bright  with  morning  sunlight.  To 
the  east  lay  the  silver  glimmer  of  a  tree-fringed 
lake ;  beyond,  a  church  spire  among  the  trees  and 
a  winding  country  road  traveled  by  the  solitary 
van  of  green  and  white. 

"A  singular  conveyance,  is  it  not,  Poynter?" 
inquired  the  older  man,  his  careful  articulation 
blurred  by  a  pronounced  foreign  accent.  Star 
ing  intently  at  the  sunlit  road,  he  added :  "  Is  it 
a  common  mode  of  travel  —  here  in  America? " 

The  younger  man,  a  lean,  sinewy  chap  with 
singularly  fine  eyes  of  blue  above  lean,  tanned 
cheeks,  frowned  thoughtfully. 

"  By  no  means,"  said  he  pleasantly.  "  Indeed 
it's  quite  new  to  me.  Seems  to  have  blowy  white 
things  at  the  sides  like  window  curtains, 
doesn't  it?" 

"A  nomadic  young  woman,  I  am  told," 
shrugged  the  older  man  carelessly.  He  stood 
watching  the  dusty  trail  of  the  nomad  with  nar 
rowed,  thoughtful  eyes,  unaware  that  his 
companion's  eyes  had  wandered  somewhat  ex 
pectantly  to  the  Westfall  lake. 

"Baron  Tregar!"  whispered  Ann  Sherrill  in 
a  remote  corner  of  the  veranda  to  a  girl  she  had 


Baron  Tregar  49 

brought  up  to  the  farm  with  her  late  the  night 
before.  "  Has  a  real  air  of  distinction,  hasn't  he, 
Susanne  ?  And  such  deep,  dark,  compelling  eyes. 
Rather  Arabic,  I  think,  but  mother  says  Magyar. 
Dick  says  he's  immensely  interested  in  the  war 
possibilities  of  aeroplanes  and  fearfully  patriotic. 
Touring  the  States,  I  believe.  Dad  picked  him 
up  in  Washington.  Philip's  teaching  him  to  fly. 
Philip  was  up  once  before,  you  know,  in  the  spring 
and  Dad  urged  him  to  come  up  again  and  bring 
the  Baron  along  to  learn  aeroplaning.  Philip 
Poynter,  of  course,  the  Baron's  secretary  1"  in 
scandalized  italics.  "Didn't  you  know,  really? 
.  .  .  The  Philip  Poynter.  .  .  .  And  I  say 
it's  absolutely  sinful  for  a  man  to  be  so  good- 
looking  as  long  as  the  world's  monogamous." 

"Quarreled  with  his  father  or  something, 
didn't  he?"  asked  Susanne  vaguely. 

"Quarreled!"  exclaimed  Ann  righteously. 
"  Well,  I  should  say  he  did.  My  dear,  the  young 
man's  temper  simply  splintered  into  a  million 
pieces  and  he  hasn't  found  them  yet.  Flatly  re 
fused  to  take  a  cent  of  his  father's  money  because 
he'd  discovered  it  was  made  dishonestly.  Think 
of  it!  And  Dad  says  it's  true.  Old  Poynter  is 
a  pirate,  an  unscrupulous,  money-mad,  villainous 
old  pirate  and  he  did  something  or  other  most 
unpleasant  to  Dad  in  Wall  Street.  And  would 
you  believe  it,  Susanne,  Philip  went  fuming  off 


50         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

huffily  to  some  ridiculous  little  mountain  king 
dom  in  Europe  that  he  was  awfully  keen  about 
—  Houdania  —  and  rented  himself  out  as  a  secre 
tary  to  Baron  Tregar.  Just  imagine!  Dick  says 
he  organized  an  aviation  department  there  and 
won  some  kind  of  a  prize  for  an  improved  model 
and  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  Susanne,  Philip's  grand 
father  up  and  died,  after  quarreling  for  years  and 
years  with  the  whole  family,  and  left  Philip  all 
his  money!  I  think  Philip's  quarrel  with  his 
father  pleased  him.  But  the  very  queerest  part  is 
that  Philip  actually  likes  to  work  and  dabble  in 
foreign  politics  and  he  flatly  refused  to  give  up 
his  job!  Isn't  it  romantic?  Philip  was  always 
keen  for  adventure.  Dick  says  you  never  could 
put  your  finger  on  a  spot  on  the  map  and  say  com 
fortably,  '  Philip  Poynter's  here! '  for  most  likely 
Philip  Poynter  was  bolting  furiously  somewhere 
else!" 

Unaware  of  Susanne's  furtive  interest  in  his 
career,  Philip  scanned  the  calm,  unruffled  waters 
of  the  Westfall  lake  and  sighing  turned  back  to 
his  chief.  There  was  a  tempting  drone  of  motors 
back  among  the  hangars. 

"We  fly  this  morning?"  he  inquired  smiling. 

"Unfortunately  not,"  regretted  the  Baron, 
and  led  the  way  indoors  to  a  room  which 
Mrs.  Sherrill  had  hospitably  insisted  upon  re- 


Baron  Tregar  51 

garding  as  a  private  den  of  work  and  consulta 
tion  for  the  Baron  and  his  secretary. 

"There  is  a  mission  of  exceeding  delicacy," 
began  Baron  Tregar  slowly,  "  which  I  feel  I  must 
inflict  upon  you."  His  deep,  penetrating  eyes 
lingered  intently  upon  Philip's  face.  "It  con 
cerns  the  singular  conveyance  of  green  and  white 
and  the  lady  within  it." 

Philip  looked  frankly  astonished. 

"  I  take  it  then,"  he  suggested,  "  that  you  know 
the  nomadic  lady,  Baron  Tregar?" 

"  No,"  said  the  Baron. 

Philip  stared. 

'*  Your  Excellency  is  pleased  to  jest,"  he  said 
politely. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  the  Baron,  "  I  am  at 
a  loss  for  suitable  words  in  which  to  express  my 
singular  request.  I  am  assured  of  your  interest, 
Poynter?" 

"Of  my  interest,  assuredly!"  admitted  Philip. 
"  My  compliance,"  he  added  fairly,  "  depends,  of 
course,  upon  the  nature  of  the  mission." 

"It  is  absurdly  simple,"  said  the  Houdanian 
suavely.  "Merely  to  discover  whether  or  not 
the  nomadic  lady  feels  any  exceptional  interest — 
in  Houdania.  For  the  information  to  be  acquired 
in  a  careless,  disinterested  manner  without  arous 
ing  undue  interest,  requires,  I  think,  an  Ameri 
can  of  brains  and  breeding,  a  compatriot  of  the 


52         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

nomad.  It  has  occurred  to  me  that  you  are 
equipped  by  a  habit  of  courtesy  and  tact  to  — 
arrive  accidentally  in  the  path  of  the  caravan  —  " 

"  I  thank  you ! "  said  Philip  dryly.  "  I  prefer," 
he  added  stiffly,  "  to  confine  my  diplomatic  activ 
ities  to  more  conventional  channels." 

"  When  I  assure  you,"  purred  the  Baron  with 
his  maddening  precision  of  speech,  "that  this 
information  is  of  peculiar  value  to  me  and  with 
out  immediate  significance  to  the  lady  herself,  I 
am  sure  that  you  will  not  feel  bound  to  withhold 
your — hum — your  cooperation  in  so  slight  a 
personal  inconvenience,  singular  as  it  may  all 
seem  to  you.  I  am  right  ? " 

Philip  reddened  uncomfortably. 

"I  am  to  understand  that  I  would  undertake 
this  peculiar  mission  equipped  with  no  further 
information  than  you  have  offered?" 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  the  Baron.  "  I  must  beg  of 
you  to  undertake  it  without  question." 

"Pray  believe,"  flashed  Philip,  "that  I  am 
not  inclined  to  question.  That  fact,"  he  added 
coldly,  "  is  in  itself  a  handicap." 

"The  lady's  name,"  explained  the  Baron 
quietly,  "is  Westf all  — Diane  Westfall." 

"Impossible!"  exclaimed  Philip  and  savagely 
bit  his  lip. 

"  Ah,  then  you  know  the  lady ! "  said  the  Baron 
softly. 


Baron  Tregar  53 

"  I  regret,"  said  Philip  formally,  "  that  I  have 
not  had  the  honor  of  meeting  Miss  Westfall." 
But  he  saw  vividly  again  a  girl  straight  and  slen 
der  as  a  silver  birch,  with  firm,  wind-bright  skin 
and  dark,  mocking  eyes.  There  were  hemlocks 
and  a  dog — and  Dick  Sherrill  had  been  talkative 
over  billiards  the  night  before. 

"Miss  Westfall,"  added  Philip  guilelessly,  "is 
the  owner  of  the  Glade  Farm  below  here  in  the 
valley." 

"Ah,  yes,"  nodded  Tregar.  "It  is  so  I  have 
heard."  His  glance  lingered  still  upon  Philip's 
face  in  subtle  inquiry.  Bending  its  Circean  head, 
Temptation  laughed  lightly  in  Philip  Poynter's 
eyes.  The  girl  in  the  caravan  was  winding  away 
by  dusty  roads  —  out  of  his  life  perhaps.  And 
singular  as  the  mission  was,  its  aim  was  harmless. 

"  Our  lady,"  said  the  Baron  smoothly,  "  camps 
by  night.  From  an  aeroplane  one  may  see  much 

—  a  camp  —  a  curl  of  smoke — a  caravan.    Later 
one  may  walk  and,  walking,  one  may  lose  his  way 

—  to  find  it  again  with  perfect  ease  by  means  of  a 
forest  camp  fire." 

Somehow  on  the  Baron's  tongue  the  escapade 
became  insidious  duplicity.  Philip  flushed, 
acutely  conscious  of  a  significant  stirring  of  his 
conscience. 

"I  may  fly  with  Sherrill  this  afternoon,"  he 
said  with  marked  reluctance. 


54          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"And  at  sunset?" 

"  I  may  walk,"  said  Philip,  shrugging. 

"  Permit  me,"  said  the  Baron  gratefully  as  he 
rose, "  to  thank  you.  The  service  is  —  ah  —  inval 
uable." 

Uncomfortably  Philip  accepted  his  release  and 
went  lightly  up  the  stairs. 

"  I  am  a  fool,"  said  Philip.  "  But  surely  Walt 
Whitman  must  have  understood  for  he  said  it 
all  in  verse.  *  I  am  to  wait,  I  do  not  doubt,  I  am  to 
meet  you  again,' "  quoted  Philip  under  his  breath ; 
" '  I  am  to  see  to  it  that  I  do  not  lose  you ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  VII 

THEMAR 

door  which  led  into  the  Baron's  bedroom 
J.  from  his  own  was  slightly  ajar.  Philip, 
about  to  close  it,  fancied  he  heard  the  stealthy 
rustle  of  paper  beyond  and  swung  it  noiselessly 
back,  halting  in  silent  interest  upon  the  threshold. 

Themar,  the  Baron's  Houdanian  valet,  was 
intently  transcribing  upon  his  shirt-cuff,  the  con 
tents  of  a  paper  which  lay  uppermost  in  the 
drawer  of  a  small  portable  desk. 

Catlike,  Philip  stole  across  the  room.  The- 
mar's  hand  was  laboriously  reproducing  upon  the 
linen  an  intricate  message  in  cipher. 

"Difficult,  too,  isn't  it?"  sympathized  Philip 
smoothly  at  his  elbow. 

With  a  sharp  cry,  Themar  wheeled,  his  small, 
shifting  eyes  black  with  hate.  They  wavered  and 
fell  beneath  the  level,  icy  stare  of  the  American. 
Philip's  fingers  slipped  viselike  along  the  other's 
wrists  and  Philip's  voice  grew  more  acidly  polite. 

"  My  dear  Themar,"  he  regretted,  falling  un 
consciously  into  the  language  of  his  chief,  "I 
must  spoil  the  symmetry  of  your  wardrobe.  The 
hieroglyphical  cuff,  if  you  please" 

Themar's  snarl  was  unintelligible.     Smiling, 

55 


56         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Philip  unbuttoned  the  stiff  band  of  linen  and 
drew  it  slowly  off . 

"A  pity!"  said  he  with  gentle,  sarcastic 
apology  in  his  eyes.  "  Such  perfect  work !  And 
after  all  that  infernal  bother  of  stealing  the  key ! " 

Philip  lightly  dropped  the  cuff  into  the  pocket 
of  his  coat. 

"  And  the  key,  Themar,"  he  reminded  gently, 
"the  key  to  the  Baron's  desk?  .  .  .  Ah,  so 
it's  still  here.  Excellent!  And  now  that  the 
drawer  is  locked  again  —  " 

The  hall  door  creaked.  Simultaneously  Themar 
and  Philip  wheeled.  The  Baron  stood  in  the 
doorway. 

Philip  smiled  and  bowed. 

"Excellency,"  said  he,  "Themar  in  an  over- 
zealous  desire  to  rearrange  your  private  papers 
has  acquired  your  private  key  and  I  have  taken 
the  liberty  of  confiscating  it,  knowing  that  you 
prize  its  possession.  Permit  me  to  return  it  now." 

"Thank  you,  Poynter!"  said  the  Baron  and 
glanced  keenly  at  Themar.  "  It  is  but  now  that 
I  had  missed  it." 

"Excellency,"  burst  forth  Themar  desper 
ately,  "  I  found  it  this  morning  on  the  rug." 

"But,"  purred  the  Baron,  "why  seek  a  key 
hole?" 

Themar's  dark  face  was  ashen. 


Themar  57 

Philip,  with  a  wholesome  distaste  for  scenes, 
slipped  away. 

"Excellency,"  burst  forth  Themar  passion 
ately  as  the  door  closed,  "it  is  unfair — " 

The  Baron  raised  his  hand  in  a  gesture  of 
warning. 

"Permit  me,  Themar,"  he  said  coldly  as  the 
sound  of  Philip's  footsteps  died  away,  "permit 
me  to  remind  you  that  my  secretary  is  quite  una 
ware  of  our  peculiar  relations.  He  is  laboring  at 
present  under  the  necessary  delusion  that  your 
arrival  here  was  entirely  the  result  of  my  fastid 
ious  distaste  for  the  personal  services  of  anyone 
but  a  fellow  countryman.  Presumably  I  had 
cabled  home  for  you.  I  prefer,"  he  added,  "  that 
he  continue  to  think  so." 

Themar's  eyes  flashed  resentfully. 

"Excellency,"  he  said  sullenly,  "it  is  unfair 
that  I  am  denied  the  knowledge  of  detail  that  I 
need.  That  is  why  I  sought  to  read  the  cipher." 

"  And  yet,  Themar,"  said  the  Baron  softly,  "  I 
fancy  Ronador  has  told  you — something — 
enough!"  He  shrugged,  his  impenetrable  eyes 
narrowing  slowly.  "But  that  I  need  you,"  he 
said  evenly,  "  but  that  your  knowledge  of  Eng 
lish  makes  you  an  invaluable  ally — and  one  not 
easily  replaced  —  I  would  send  you  back  to  Hou- 
dania  —  disgraced !  As  it  is,  we  are  hedged  about 


58          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

with  peculiar  difficulties  and  I  must  use  —  and 
watch  you." 

He  glanced  significantly  at  the  desk  drawer 
and  thence  to  Themar's  dark,  unscrupulous  face, 
resentful  and  defiant. 

"  Now  as  for  the  cryptogram  which  tempted 
you  so  sorely,"  went  on  the  Baron  smoothly. 
"  Its  chief  mission,  as  I  have  repeatedly  assured 
you,  was  to  convert  my  journey  of  pleasure  in 
America  into  one  of  immediate  —  hum  —  service. 
I  have  spoken  to  you  of  a  certain  paper— 

"  There  was  more,"  said  Themar  sullenly. 

"Merely,"  smiled  the  Baron  with  engaging 
candor,  "  that  you  are  fully  equipped  with  definite 
instructions  which  I  am  to  see  are  fulfilled." 

"  There  is  a  girl,"  said  Themar  bluntly. 

The  Baron  stared. 

"  What  ? "  he  rumbled  sharply. 

"I  —  I  learned  of  her  and  of  the  cipher  in 
Houdania!"  stammered  Themar. 

'  You  know  something  more  of  detail  than  you 
need  to  know,"  said  the  Baron  dryly.  "More 
over,"  he  added  icily,  "  you  will  confine  your  pro 
fessional  attentions  to  the  other  sex.  You  are 
sure  about  the  paper?" 

"Yes." 

*  Your  trip  to  Xew  York  last  night  was — hum 
— uneventful?" 

"Yes." 


Themar  59 

'You  will  go  again  to-night?" 

"  It  is  unnecessary.  Cranberry  is  at  the  West- 
fall  farm." 

"Ah!" 

"But,  Excellency,"  reminded  Themar  glibly, 
"there  is  still  the  girl  — "  Deep,  compelling, 
Tregar's  eyes  burned  steadily  into  menace. 

"  Must  I  repeat  — " 

"Excellency,"  stammered  Themar  blanching. 

'  You  may  go ! "  said  the  Baron  curtly. 

There  had  been  no  word  of  the  scribbled  cuff, 
Themar  remembered.  And  surely  one  may  steal 
away  one's  own. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AFTER  SUNSET 

THE  sun  had  set.  Back  from  his  flight  over 
the  hills  with  Sherrill,  Philip  had  bathed  and 
shaved,  whistling  thoughtfully  to  himself.  Now 
as  he  descended  the  steep  Sherrill  lane  to  the  val 
ley,  ravine  and  hollow  were  already  dark  with 
twilight.  From  the  rustling  trees  arching  the 
lane  overhead  came  the  occasional  sleepy  chirp 
and  flutter  of  a  bird.  Off  somewhere  in  the  gath 
ering  dusk  a  lonely  owl  hooted  eerily.  Still  there 
was  storm  in  the  warm,  sweet  air  to-night  and 
back  yonder  over  the  hills  to  the  north,  the  sky 
brightened  fitfully  with  lightning. 

Slipping  his  hand  carelessly  into  his  coat  pocket 
for  a  pipe,  Philip  laughed. 

"My  Lord!"  said  he  lightly.  "The  hiero- 
glyphical  cuff !  I  should  have  given  that  to  the 
Baron.  .  .  .  Themar,"  added  Philip,  packing 
his  pipe,  "is  an  infernal  bounder!'* 

Diane's  camp  lay  barely  two  miles  to  the  west. 
Homing  at  sunset  Philip  had  veered  and  circled 
over  it.  Now  as  he  turned  westward  toward  the 
river,  the  nature  of  his  errand  chafed  him  sorely. 

"  Nor  can  I  see,"  mused  Philip,  puffing  uncom- 

60 


After  Sunset  61 

fortably  at  his  pipe,  "  why  in  the  devil  he  wants 
to  know!" 

A  soft,  warm  nose  suddenly  insinuated  itself 
into  his  hand  with  a  frank  bid  for  attention  and 
Philip  turned.  A  shaggy,  soft-footed  shadow 
was  waggling  along  at  his  heels,  Dick's  favorite 
setter. 

" Hello,  old  top! "  exclaimed  Philip  cheerfully. 
"  When  did  you  hit  the  trail? " 

Old  Top  barked  joyously  but  didn't  appear  to 
remember. 

"Well,"  said  Philip,  lazily  patting  the  dog's 
head,  "  you're  welcome  anyway.  I'm  a  diplomat 
to-night,"  he  added  humorously,  "  bound  upon  a 
*  mission  of  exceeding  delicacy '  and  only  a  com 
panion  of  your  extraordinary  reticence  and  dis 
cretion  would  be  welcome." 

Man  and  dog  turned  aside  into  a  crossroad. 
It  was  very  dark  now,  the  only  spot  of  cheer 
save  for  the  lightning  behind  the  hills,  the  coal 
of  Philip's  pipe. 

"  Tell  me,  old  man,"  begged  Philip  whimsically, 
"  what  would  you  do?  May  we  not  wander  casu 
ally  into  camp  and  look  at  my  beautiful  gypsy 
lady  without  fussing  unduly  about  this  infernal 
mission?  More  and  more  do  we  dislike  it.  And 
in  the  morning  we  may  respectfully  rebel.  Ah, 
an  excellent  point,  Nero.  To  be  sure  our  chief 
will  be  very  smooth  and  insistent  but  we  ourselves, 


62         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

you  recall,  have  possibilities  of  extreme  firmness. 
And  the  lady  is  Diane,  though  we  only  call  her 
that,  old  top,  among  ourselves. 

"Splendid  decision!"  exclaimed  Philip  pres 
ently  with  intense  satisfaction.  "Nero,  you've 
been  an  umpire.  We'll  rebel.  Nevertheless,  we 
must  assure  ourselves  that  the  camp  of  our  lady 
is  ready  for  storm." 

It  was.  Following  a  forest  path,  Philip  pres 
ently  caught  the  flicker  of  a  camp  fire  ahead. 
There  was  a  huge  tarpaulin  over  the  wagon  and 
a  canopy  above  the  horses.  Storm-proof  tents 
loomed  dimly  among  the  trees.  A  brisk  little  man 
whose  apple  cheeks  and  grizzled  whiskers  Philip 
instantly  approved,  trotted  importantly  about 
among  the  horses,  humming  a  jerky  melody. 
Johnny  was  fifty  and  looked  a  hundred,  but 
those  unwary  ones  who  had  felt  the  steely  grip 
of  his  sinewy  fingers  were  apt  evermore  to  re 
spect  him. 

Diane  was  piling  wood  upon  the  fire  with  the 
careless  grace  of  a  splendid  young  savage.  The 
light  of  the  camp  fire  danced  ruddily  upon  her 
slim,  brown  arms  and  throat  bared  to  the  rising 
wind.  A  beautiful,  restless  gypsy  of  fire  and 
wind,  she  looked,  at  one  with  the  storm-haunted 
wood  about  her. 

There  came  a  patter  of  rain  upon  the  forest 
leaves.  The  tents  were  flapping  and  the  fire 


After  Sunset  63 

began  to  flare.  There  were  curious  wind  crackles 
all  about  him,  and  Nero  had  begun  to  sniff  and 
whine.  Somewhere  —  off  there  among  the  trees 
—  Philip  fancied  he  caught  the  stealthy  pad  of  a 
footfall  and  the  crackle  of  underbrush.  Every 
instinct  of  his  body  focusing  wildly  upon  the 
thought  of  harm  to  Diane,  he  whirled  swiftly 
about,  colliding  as  he  did  so  with  something — 
vague,  formless,  heavy — that  leaped,  crouching, 
from  the  shadows  and  bore  him  to  the  ground. 
The  lightning  flared  savagely  upon  steel.  Philip 
felt  a  blinding  thud  upon  his  head,  a  sharp,  sting 
ing  agony  along  his  shoulder. 

Somewhere  in  the  forest  —  a  great  way  off  he 
thought — a  dog  was  barking  furiously. 


CHAPTER   IX 

IN  A  STORM-HAUNTED  WOOD 

"fTlHE  storm  is  coming!"  exclaimed  Diane 

JL  with  shining  eyes.  "Button  the  flaps  by 
the  horses,  Johnny.  We're  in  for  it  to-night. 
Hear  the  wind!" 

Overhead  the  gale  tore  ragged  gaps  among  the 
fire-shadowed  trees,  unshrouding  a  storm-black 
sky.  Fearlessly  —  the  old  wild  love  of  storm 
and  wind  singing  powerfully  in  her  heart  —  the 
girl  rose  from  the  fire  and  faced  the  tempest. 

Rex  pressed  fearfully  beside  her,  whining.  Off 
there  somewhere  in  the  wind  and  darkness  a  dog 
had  barked.  It  came  now  again,  high  above  the 
noise  of  the  wind,  a  furious,  frightened  barking. 

"Johnny!"  exclaimed  Diane  suddenly. 
"There  must  be  something  wrong  over  there. 
Better  go  see.  No,  not  that  way.  More  to  the 
east."  And  Johnny,  whose  soul  for  thirty  years 
had  thirsted  for  adventure,  briskly  seized  an 
ancient  pistol  and  charged  off  through  the  forest. 

But  Aunt  Agatha  had  talked  long  and  tear 
fully  to  Johnny.  Wherefore,  reluctant  to  leave 
his  charge  alone  in  the  rain  and  dark,  he  turned 
back. 

"Go!"  said  Diane  with  a  flash  of  impatience. 

64 


In  a  Storm -Haunted  Wood       65 

Johnny  went.  Looking  back  over  his  shoulder 
he  saw  the  girl  outlined  vividly  against  the  fire, 
skirts  and  hair  flying  stormily  about  her  in  the 
wind.  So  might  the  primal  woman  stand  ere  the 
march  of  civilization  had  over-sexed  her. 

The  wind  was  growing  fiercer  now,  driving  the 
rain  about  in  angry  gusts.  Thunder  cannonaded 
noisily  overhead. 

Veering  suddenly  in  a  new  direction  —  for  in 
the  roar  of  the  storm  the  bark  of  the  dog  seemed 
curiously  to  shift — Johnny  collided  violently 
with  a  dark  figure  running  wildly  through  the 
forest.  Both  men  fell.  Finding  his  invisible  as 
sailant  disposed  viciously  to  contest  detention, 
Johnny  fell  in  with  his  mood  and  buried  his  long, 
lean  fingers  cruelly  in  the  other's  throat. 

The  fortunes  of  war  turned  speedily.  Johnny's 
victim  squirmed  desperately  to  his  feet  and 
bounded  away  through  the  forest. 

Now  as  they  ran,  stumbling  and  finding  their 
way  as  best  they  might  in  the  glitter  of  lightning, 
there  came  from  the  region  of  the  camp  the  un 
mistakable  crack  of  a  pistol.  Two  shots  in  rapid 
succession  followed  —  an  interval  of  five  seconds 
or  so  —  and  then  another.  The  final  trio  was  the 
shot  signal  of  the  old  buffalo  hunters  which  Diane 
had  taught  to  Johnny. 

"Where  are  you?"  barked  the  signal. 

Drawing  his  ancient  pistol  as  he  ran,  Johnny, 


66          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

in  vain,  essayed  the  answer.  The  veteran  missed 
fire.  After  all,  reflected  Johnny  uncomfortably, 
one  signal  was  merely  to  locate  him.  If  another 
came  — 

The  lightning,  flaming  in  a  vivid  sheet,  revealed 
a  lonely  road  ahead  and  on  the  road  by  the  farther 
hedge,  a  man  desperately  cranking  a  long,  dark 
car.  The  lamps  of  the  car  were  unlighted. 

With  a  yell  of  startled  anger,  the  man  who  bore 
the  bleeding  marks  of  Johnny's  fingers  redoubled 
his  speed  and  darted  crazily  for  the  roadway. 
Before  he  had  reached  it  the  man  by  the  car  had 
leaped  swiftly  to  the  wheel  and  rolled  away. 

From  the  forest  came  again  the  signal: 
"Where  are  you?" 

Johnny  groaned.  Frantically  he  tried  the 
rebel  again.  It  readily  spat  its  answer  this  time, 
an  instantaneous  duplicate  of  shots. 

"I'm  here.    What  do  you  want?" 

In  the  lightning  glare  the  man  ahead  made  off 
wildly  across  the  fields. 

Running,  Johnny  cocked  his  ears  for  the 
familiar  assurance  of  one  shot. 

"All  right,"  it  would  mean;  "I  only  wanted 
to  know  where  you  are,"  but  it  did  not  come. 

Instead — two  shots  again  in  rapid  succession 
—  an  interval — and  then  another. 

"  I  am  in  serious  trouble,"  barked  the  signal 
in  the  forest.  "Come  as  fast  as  you  can." 


In  a  Storm-Haunted  Wood       67 

With  a  groan  Johnny  abandoned  the  chase  and 
retraced  his  steps.  Thus  a  perverse  Fate  ever 
snipped  the  thread  of  an  embryo  adventure. 

A  light  flickered  dully  among  the  trees  to  the 
east.  Johnny  cupped  his  hands  and  yodeled. 
The  light  moved.  A  little  later  as  he  crashed 
hurriedly  through  the  underbrush,  Diane  called 
to  him.  She  was  holding  a  lantern  high  above 
something  on  the  ground,  her  face  quite  colorless. 

"I'm  glad  you're  here!"  she  said.  "It's  the 
aviator,  Johnny.  He's  hurt — " 

The  aviator  stirred. 

"He's  comin'  'round,"  said  Johnny  peering 
down  into  the  white  face  in  the  aureole  of  lantern- 
light.     "The  rain  in  his  face  likely. 
Well,  young  fellow,  what  do  you  think  of  your 
self,  eh?" 

"Not  much,"  said  Philip  blankly  and  stared 
about  him. 

"  Can  you  follow  us  to  the  camp  fire  yonder? " 
asked  Diane  compassionately. 

Philip,  though  evidently  very  dizzy,  thought 
likely  he  could,  and  he  did.  That  his  shoulder 
was  wet  and  very  painful,  he  was  well  aware, 
though  somehow  he  had  forgotten  why.  More 
over,  his  head  throbbed  queerly. 

There  came  a  tent  and  a  bed  and  a  blur  of 
incidents. 

Mr.  Poynter  dazedly  resigned  himself  to  a 
general  atmosphere  of  unreality. 


A 


CHAPTER  X 

ON    THE    RIDGE    ROAD 

T  THE  Westfall  farm  as  the  electric  van 
guard  of  the  storm  flashed  brightly  over 
the  valley,  the  telephone  had  tinkled.  In  con 
siderable  distress  of  mind  Aunt  Agatha  an 
swered  it. 

"I  —  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  when  he  will  be 
home,"  she  said  helplessly  after  a  while.  .  .  . 
"  He  went  barely  a  minute  ago  and  very  foolish 
too,  I  said,  with  the  storm  coming.  ...  At 
dinner  he  spoke  some  of  going  to  the  camp  — 
Miss  Westf all's  camp.  .  .  .  I  —  I  really  don't 
know.  ...  I  wish  I  did  but  I  don't." 

The  lightning  blazed  at  the  window  and  left 
it  black.  Beyond  in  the  lane,  a  car  with  glaring 
headlights  was  rolling  rapidly  toward  the  gate 
way.  Aunt  Agatha  hung  up  with  an  aggrieved 
sniff. 

Catching  the  reflection  of  the  headlights  she 
hurried  to  the  window. 

"  Carl !  Carl ! "  she  called  through  the  noise  of 
wind  and  thunder. 

The  car  came  to  a  halt  with  a  grinding  shudder 
of  brakes. 

68 


On  the  Ridge  Road  69 

"  Yes? "  said  Carl  patiently.  "  What  is  it,  Aunt 
Agatha?" 

"Dick  Sherrill  phoned,"  said  his  aunt  plain 
tively.  "  I  thought  you'd  gone.  He  wanted  you 
to  come  up  and  play  bridge.  Oh,  Carl,  I  —  I 
do  wish  you  wouldn't  motor  about  in  a  thunder 
shower.  I  once  knew  a  man  —  such  a  nice,  quiet 
fellow  too  —  and  very  domestic  in  his  habits  — 
but  he  would  ramble  about  and  the  lightning  tore 
his  collar  off  and  printed  a  picture  of  a  tree  on 
his  spine.  Think  of  that!" 

Carl  laughed.    He  was  raincoated  and  hatless. 

"An  arboreal  spine!"  said  he,  rolling  on. 
"Lord,  Aunt  Agatha,  that  was  tough!  Moral 
—  don't  be  domestic!" 

"Carl!"  quavered  his  aunt  tearfully. 

Again,  throbbing  like  a  giant  heart  in  the  dark 
ness,  the  car  halted.  Carl  tossed  his  hair  back 
from  his  forehead  with  a  smothered  groan,  but 
said  nothing.  He  was  always  kinder  and  less 
impatient  to  Aunt  Agatha  in  a  careless  way  than 
Diane. 

"Will  you  take  Diane  an  extra  raincoat  and 
rubbers?"  appealed  Aunt  Agatha  pathetically. 
"  Like  as  not  the  pockets  of  the  other  are  full  of 
bugs  and  things." 

"  Aunt  Agatha,"  grumbled  Carl  kindly,  "  why 
fuss  so?  Diane's  equipped  with  nerve  and  grit 
and  independence  enough  to  look  out  for  herself." 


70         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Aunt  Agatha  sniffed  and  closed  the  window. 

"I  shan't  worry!"  she  said  flatly.  "I  shan't 
do  it.  If  Carl  comes  home  with  a  tree  on  his 
spine,  it's  his  own  concern.  Why  /  should  have 
to  endure  all  this,  however,  I  can't  for  the  life 
of  me  see.  I've  one  consolation  anyway.  A  good 
part  of  my  life's  over.  Death  will  be  a  welcome 
relief  after  what  I've  gone  through  I" 

Shrugging  as  the  window  closed  Carl  drove 
on  rapidly  down  the  driveway. 

It  pleased  him  to  ride  madly  with  the  wind 
and  storm.  The  gale,  laden  with  dust  and  grit, 
bit  and  stung  and  tore  rudely  at  his  coat  and 
hair.  The  great  lamps  of  the  car  flashed  bril 
liantly  ahead,  revealing  the  wind-beaten  grasses 
by  the  wayside.  Somewhere  back  in  his  mind 
there  was  a  troublesome  stir  of  conscience.  It 
had  bothered  him  for  days.  It  had  driven  him 
irresistibly  to-night  at  dinner  to  speak  of  visiting 
his  cousin's  camp,  though  he  bit  his  lip  immedi 
ately  afterward  in  a  flash  of  indecision.  The  tur 
bulent  night  had  seemed  of  a  sort  to  think  things 
over.  Moonlit  fields  and  roads  were  enervating. 
Storm  whipping  a  man's  blood  into  fire  and  en 
ergy —  biting  his  brain  into  relentless  activity!  — 
there  was  a  thing  for  you. 

Whiskey  did  not  help.  Last  night  it  had 
treacherously  magnified  the  voice  of  conscience 
into  a  gibing  roar. 


On  the  Ridge  Road  71 

Money !  Money !  The  ray  of  the  lamps  ahead, 
the  fork  of  the  lightning,  the  flickering  gaslight 
there  at  the  crossroads,  they  were  all  the  color 
of  gold  and  like  gold — of  a  flame  that  burned. 
Yes,  he  must  have  money.  No  matter  what  the 
voice,  he  must  have  money. 

At  the  crossroads  he  halted  suddenly.  To  the 
south  now  lay  his  cousin's  camp,  to  the  north  the 
storm. 

Perversely  Carl  wheeled  about  and  drove  to 
the  north.  A  conscience  was  a  luxury  for  a  rich 
man.  Let  the  thing  he  had  done,  sired  by  the 
demon  of  the  bottle  and  mothered  by  the  hell-pit 
of  his  flaming  passions,  breed  its  own  results. 

It  was  a  fitful  nerve-straining  task,  waiting, 
and  he  had  waited  now  for  weeks.  Waiting  had 
bred  the  Voice  in  his  conscience,  waiting  had 
bored  insidious  holes  in  his  armor  of  flippant 
philosophy  through  which  had  crept  remorse  and 
bitter  self-contempt ;  once  it  had  brought  a  flam 
ing  resolve  brutally  to  lay  it  all  before  his  cousin 
and  taunt  her  with  a  crouching  ghost  buried  for 
years  in  a  candlestick. 

Then  there  were  nights  like  to-night  when  the 
ghastly  hell-pit  was  covered,  and  when  to  tell  her 
squarely  what  the  future  held,  without  taunt  or 
apology,  stirred  him  on  to  ardent  resolution. 

But  alas!  the  last  was  but  an  intermittent 
witch-fire  leading  him  through  the  marsh  after 


72         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

the  elusive  ghosts  of  finer  things,  to  flicker  for 
lornly  out  at  the  end  and  abandon  him  in  a  pit 
of  blackness  and  mockery. 

Very  well,  then;  he  would  tell  Diane  of  the 
yellowed  paper ;  he  would  tell  her  to-night.  How 
ever  he  played  the  game  there  was  gold  at  the 
end. 

He  laughed  suddenly  and  shrugged  and  swept 
erratically  into  a  lighter  mood  of  impudence  and 
daring.  There  was  rain  beating  furiously  in  his 
face  and  his  hair  was  wet.  Well,  the  car  pound 
ing  along  beneath  him  had  known  many  such 
nights  of  storm  and  wild  adventure.  It  had 
pleased  him  frequently  to  mock  and  gibe  at 
death,  with  the  wheel  in  his  hand  and  a  song  on 
his  lips,  and  now  wind  and  storm  were  tempting 
him  to  ride  with  the  devil. 

So,  dashing  wildly  through  the  whirl  of  dirt 
and  wind,  heavy  with  the  odor  of  burnt  oil,  he 
bent  to  the  wheel,  every  nerve  alert  and  leaping. 
As  the  great  car  jumped  to  its  limit  of  speed,  he 
fell  to  singing  an  elaborate  sketch  of  opera  in 
an  insolent,  dare-devil  voice  of  splendid  timbre, 
the  exhaust,  unmuffled,  pounding  forth  an 
obligato. 

The  lightning  flared.  It  glittered  wickedly 
upon  the  unlighted  lamps  of  a  car  rolling  rapidly 
toward  him.  With  a  squirt  of  mud  and  a  scatter 
of  flying  pebbles,  Carl  swung  far  to  the  side  of 


On  the  Ridge  Road  73 

the  road  and  slammed  on  his  brakes,  skidding 
dangerously.  The  other  car,  heading  wildly  to 
the  left,  went  crashing  headlong  into  a  ditch  from 
which  a  man  crawled,  cursing  viciously  in  a  for 
eign  tongue. 

"  You  damned  fool ! "  thundered  Carl  in  a  flash 
of  temper.  "Where  are  your  lights?" 

The  man  did  not  reply. 

Carl,  whose  normal  instincts  were  friendly, 
sprang  solicitously  from  the  car. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he  carelessly.  "  Are 
you  hurt?" 

"No,"  said  the  other  curtly. 

"French,"  decided  Carl,  marking  the  Euro 
pean  intonation.  "  Badly  shaken  up,  poor  devil ! 
— and  not  sure  of  his  English.  That  accounts 
for  his  peculiar  silence.  Monsieur,"  said  he  civ 
illy  in  French.  "  I  am  not  prepared  to  deliver  a 
homily  upon  wild  driving,  but  it's  well  to  drive 
with  lights  when  roads  are  dark  and  storm 
abroad." 

"I  have  driven  so  few  times,"  said  the  other 
coldly  in  excellent  English,  "  and  the  storm  and 
erratic  manner  of  your  approach  were  dis 
quieting." 

"Touch6!"  admitted  Carl  indifferently.  "You 
have  me  there.  Your  choice  of  a  practice  night, 
however,"  he  added  dryly,  "was  unique,  to  say 
the  least.' 


74         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

He  crossed  the  road,  frowned  curiously  down 
at  the  wrecked  machine  and  struck  a  match. 

"Voila!"  he  exclaimed,  staring  aghast  at  the 
bent  and  splintered  mass,  "  c'est  magmfique, 
Monsieur!" 

A  sheet  of  flame  shot  suddenly  from  the  match 
downward  and  wrapped  the  wreck  in  fire.  Con 
scious  now  of  the  fumes  of  leaking  gasoline, 
Carl  leaped  back. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  he  ruefully,  and  turned. 

The  reflection  of  the  burning  oil  revealed  Mon 
sieur  some  feet  away,  running  rapidly.  Angered 
by  the  man's  unaccountable  indifference,  Carl 
leaped  after  him.  He  was  much  the  better  run 
ner  of  the  two  and  presently  swung  his  prisoner 
about  in  a  brutal  grip  and  marched  him  savagely 
back  to  the  blazing  car.  Again  there  was  an 
indefinable  peculiarity  about  the  manner  of  the 
man's  surrender. 

"It  is  conventional,  Monsieur,"  said  Carl 
evenly,  "to  betray  interest  and  concern  in  the 
wreck  of  one's  property.  Voila!  I  have  effect 
ively  completed  what  you  had  begun.  If  I  am 
not  indifferent,  surely  one  may  with  reason  look 
for  a  glimmer  of  concern  from  you." 

Shrugging,  the  man  stared  sullenly  at  the  car, 
a  hopeless  torch  now  suffusing  the  lonely  road 
with  light.  There  was  a  certain  suggestion  of 
racial  subtlety  in  the  careful  immobility  of  his 


On  the  Ridge  Road  75 

face,  but  his  dark,  inscrutable  eyes  were  blazing 
dangerously. 

Carl's  careless  air  of  interest  altered  indefina 
bly.  Inspecting  his  chafing  prisoner  now  with 
narrowed,  speculative  eyes  which  glinted  keenly, 
he  fell  presently  to  whistling  softly,  laughed  and 
with  tantalizing  abruptness  fell  silent  again.  Im 
mobile  and  subtle  now  as  his  silent  companion, 
he  stared  curiously  at  the  other's  fastidiously 
pointed  beard,  at  the  dark  eyes  and  tightly  com 
pressed  lips,  and  impudently  proffered  his  cigar 
ettes.  They  were  impatiently  declined. 

"Monsieur  is  pleased,"  said  Carl  easily,  "to 
reveal  many  marked  peculiarities  of  manner,  ow 
ing  to  the  unbalancing  fact,  I  take  it,  that  his 
mind  is  relentlessly  pursuing  one  channel.  Mon 
sieur,"  went  on  Carl,  lazily  lighting  his  own  cigar 
ette  and  staring  into  his  companion's  face  with 
a  look  of  level-eyed  interest,  "  Monsieur  has  been 
praying  ardently  for  —  opportunities,  is  it  not 
so?  'I  will  humor  this  mad  fool  who  motors 
about  in  the  rain  like  an  operatic  comet!'  says 
Monsieur  inwardly,  'for  I  am,  of  course,  a 
stranger  to  him.  Then,  without  arousing  undue 
interest,  I  may  presently  escape  into  the  storm 
whence  I  came — er  —  driving  atrociously." 

The  man  stared. 

"Monsieur,"  purred  Carl  audaciously,  "is 
doubtless  more  interested  in  —  let  us  say  —  camp 


76         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

fires  for  instance,  than  such  a  vulgar  blaze  as 
yonder  car." 

"  One  is  powerless,"  returned  the  other  haugh 
tily,  "to  answer  riddles." 

Carl  bowed  with  curiously  graceful  insolence. 

"As  if  one  could  even  hope  to  break  such 
splendid  nerve  as  that!"  he  murmured  appre 
ciatively.  "It  is  an  impassiveness  that  comes 
only  with  training.  Monsieur,"  he  added  imper- 
turbably,  "I  have  had  the  pleasure — of  seeing 
you  before." 

"It  is  possible  I "  shrugged  the  other  politely. 

"Under  strikingly  different  conditions!"  pur 
sued  Carl  reminiscently.  There  was  a  disap 
pointing  lack  of  interest  in  the  other's  face. 

"  Even  that  is  possible,"  assented  the  foreigner 
stiffly.  "  Environment  is  a  shifting  circumstance 
of  many  colors.  The  honor  of  your  acquaintance, 
however,  I  fear  is  not  mine." 

Carl's  eyes,  dark  and  cold  as  agate,  compelled 
attention. 

"My  name,"  said  he  deliberately,  "is  Gran- 
berry,  Carl  Westfall  Cranberry." 

The  brief  interval  of  silence  was  electric. 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  said  the  other  formally,  "  that 
the  name  is  unfamiliar.  Monsieur  Granberi,  the 
storm  increases.  My  ill-fated  car,  I  take  it,  re 
quires  no  further  attention."  He  stopped  short, 
staring  with  peculiar  intentness  at  the  road  be- 


On  the  Ridge  Road  77 

yond.  In  the  faint  sputtering  glow  of  the  embers 
by  the  wayside  his  face  looked  white  and  strained. 

A  slight  smile  dangerously  edged  the  Ameri 
can's  lips.  With  a  careless  feint  of  glancing  over 
his  shoulder,  he  tightened  every  muscle  and 
leaped  ahead.  The  violent  impact  of  his  body 
bore  his  victim,  cursing,  to  the  ground. 

"Ah!"  said  Carl  wresting  a  revolver  from  the 
other's  hand,  "I  thought  so!  My  friend,  when 
you  try  a  trick  like  that  again,  guard  your  hands 
before  you  fall  to  staring.  A  fool  might  have 
turned  —  and  been  shot  in  the  back  for  his  pains, 
eh?  Monsieur,"  he  murmured  softly,  pinioning 
the  other  with  his  weight  and  smiling  insolently, 
"we've  a  long  ride  ahead  of  us.  Privacy,  I 
think,  is  essential  to  the  perfect  adjustment  of 
our  future  relations.  There  are  one  or  two  inex 
plicable  features  — 

The  eyes  of  the  other  met  his  with  a  level 
glance  of  desperate  hostility. 

With  an  undisciplined  flash  of  temper,  Carl 
brutally  clubbed  his  assailant  into  insensibility 
with  the  revolver  butt  and  dragged  him  heavily 
to  the  tonneau  of  his  car,  throbbing  unheeded  in 
the  darkness.  Having  assured  himself  of  his 
guest's  continued  docility  by  the  sinister  adjust 
ment  of  a  handkerchief,  an  indifferent  rag  or 
so  from  the  repair  kit  and  a  dirty  rope,  he  cov 
ered  the  motionless  figure  carelessly  with  a  robe 


78          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

and  sprang  to  the  wheel,  whistling  softly.  With 
a  throb,  the  great  car  leaped,  humming,  to  the 
road. 

At  midnight  the  lights  of  Harlem  lay  ahead. 
The  ride  from  the  hills,  three  hours  of  storm  and 
squirting  gravel,  had  been  made  with  the  per 
sistent  whir  and  drone  of  a  speeding  engine. 
But  once  had  it  rested  black  and  silent  in  a  lonely 
road  of  dripping  trees,  while  the  driver  hurried 
into  a  roadside  tavern  and  telephoned. 

Now,  with  a  purring  sigh  as  a  bridge  loomed 
ahead,  the  car  slackened  and  stopped.  Carl 
slowly  lighted  a  cigarette.  At  the  end  of  the 
bridge  a  straggler  struck  a  match  and  flung  it 
lightly  in  the  river,  the  disc  of  his  cigar  a  fire- 
point  in  the  shadows. 

The  car  rolled  on  again  and  halted. 

A  stocky  young  man  behind  the  fire-point 
emerged  from  the  darkness  and  climbed  briskly 
into  the  tonneau. 

"  Hello,  Hunch,"  said  Carl. 

"  'Lo ! "  said  Hunch  and  stared  intently  at  the 
robe. 

"  Take  a  look  at  him,"  invited  Carl  carelessly. 
"  It's  not  often  you  have  an  opportunity  of  rid 
ing  with  one  of  his  brand.  He's  in  the  Almanack 
de  Gotha." 

"T'ell  yuh  say!"  said  Hunch  largely,  though 


On  the  Ridge  Road  79 

the  term  had  conveyed  no  impression  whatever 
to  his  democratic  mind. 

Cautiously  raising  the  robe  Hunch  Dorrigan 
stared  with  interest  at  the  prisoner  he  was  incon 
spicuously  to  assist  into  the  empty  town  house  of 
the  Westfalls. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN   THE   CAMP   OF   THE   GYPSY   LADY 

FROM  a  garish  dream  of  startling  unpleas 
antness,  Philip  Poynter  stirred  and  opened 
his  eyes. 

"  Well,  now,"  he  mused  uncomfortably,  "  this 
is  more  like  it !  This  is  the  sort  of  dream  to  have ! 
I  wonder  I  never  had  sufficient  wit  to  carve  out 
one  like  this  before.  Birds  and  trees  and  wind 
fussing  pleasantly  around  a  fellow's  bed  —  and 
by  George!  those  birds  are  making  coffee!" 

There  was  a  cheerful  sound  of  flapping  canvas 
and  vanishing  glimpses  of  a  woodland  shot  with 
sun-gold,  of  a  camp  fire  and  a  pair  of  dogs  romp 
ing  boisterously.  Moreover,  though  his  bed  was 
barely  an  inch  from  the  ground  to  which  it  was 
staked  over  a  couple  of  poles,  it  was  exceedingly 
springy  and  comfortable.  Not  yet  thoroughly 
awake,  Philip  put  out  an  exploring  hand. 

"Flexible  willow  shoots!"  said  he  drowsily, 
"and  a  rush  mat!  Oberon  had  nothing  on  me. 
Hello!"  A  dog  romped  joyfully  through  the 
flapping  canvas  and  barked.  Philip's  dream  boat 
docked  with  a  painful  thud  of  memory.  Winc 
ing  painfully  he  sat  up. 

"Easy,   old   top!"   he   advised   ruefully,    as 

80 


I 


Diane  swung  lightly  up  the  forest  path. 


In  the  Camp  of  the  Gypsy  Lady  81 

the  dog  bounded  against  him.  "  It  would  seem 
that  we're  an  invalid  with  an  infernal  bump  on 
the  back  of  our  head  and  a  bandaged  shoulder." 
He  peered  curiously  through  the  tent  flap  and 
whistled  softly.  "By  George,  Nero,"  he  added 
under  his  breath,  "  we're  in  the  camp  of  my  beau 
tiful  gypsy  lady ! " 

There  was  a  bucket  of  water  by  the  tent  flap. 
Philip  painfully  made  a  meager  toilet,  glanced 
doubtfully  at  the  coarse  cotton  garment  which 
by  one  of  the  mystifying  events  of  the  previous 
night  had  replaced  the  silk  shirt  he  had  worn 
from  Sherrill's,  and  emerged  from  the  tent. 

It  was  early  morning.  A  fresh  fire  was  crack 
ling  merrily  about  a  pot  of  coffee.  Beyond 
through  the  trees  a  river  of  swollen  amber 
laughed  in  the  morning  sunlight  under  a  cloud 
less  sky.  The  ridge  of  a  distant  woodland  was 
deeply  golden,  the  rolling  meadow  lands  of 
clover  beyond  the  river  bright  with  iridescent 
dew.  But  the  storm  had  left  its  trail  of  broken 
rush  and  grasses  and  the  heavy  boughs  of  the 
woodland  dripped  forgotten  rain. 

A  girl  presently  emerged  from  the  trees  by 
the  river  and  swung  lightly  up  the  forest  path, 
her  scarlet  sweater  a  vivid  patch  in  the  lesser 
life  and  color  all  about  her. 

"  Surely,"  she  exclaimed,  meeting  Philip's 
glance  with  one  of  frank  and  very  pleasant  con- 


82         Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

cern,  " surely  you  must  be  very  weak!  Why  not 
stay  in  bed  and  let  Johnny  bring  your  breakfast 
to  you?" 

"Lord,  no!"  protested  Philip,  reddening.  "I 
feel  ever  so  much  better  than  I  look." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Diane,  smiling.  "  You 
lost  a  lot  of  blood  and  bumped  your  head  dread 
fully  on  a  jagged  rock.  Would  you  mind,"  her 
wonderful  black  eyes  met  his  in  a  glance  of  frank 
inquiry,  "would  you  mind  —  explaining?  There 
was  so  much  excitement  and  storm  last  night  that 
we  haven't  the  slightest  notion  what  happened." 

"  Neither  have  I ! "  exclaimed  Philip  ruefully. 

The  girl's  eyes  widened. 

"How  very  singular!"  she  said. 

"It  is  indeed!"  admitted  Philip. 

'You  must  be  an  exceedingly  hapless  young 
man!"  she  commented  with  serious  disapproval. 
"  I  imagine  your  life  must  be  a  monotonous  round 
of  disaster  and  excitement ! " 

"Fortuitously,"  owned  Philip,  "it's  im 
proving!" 

Piqued  by  his  irresistible  good  humor  in  adver 
sity,  Diane  eyed  him  severely. 

"  Are  you  so  in  the  habit  of  being  mysteriously 
stabbed  in  the  shoulder  whenever  it  storms,"  she 
demanded  with  mild  sarcasm,  "  that  you  can 
retain  an  altogether  pernicious  good  humor?" 

Philip's  eyes  glinted  oddly. 


In  the  Camp  of  the  Gypsy  Lady  83 

"  I'm  a  mere  novice,"  he  admitted  lightly.  "  If 
my  shoulder  didn't  throb  so  infernally,"  he  added 
thoughtfully,  "  I'd  lose  all  faith  in  the  escapade 
—  it's  so  weird  and  mysterious.  A  crackle  —  a 
lunge  —  a  knife  in  the  dark  —  and  behold!  I  am 
here,  exceedingly  grateful  and  hungry  despite 
the  melodrama." 

To  which  Diane,  raising  beautifully  arched  and 
wondering  eyebrows,  did  not  reply.  Philip,  fur 
tively  marking  the  firm  brown  throat  above  the 
scarlet  sweater,  and  the  vivid  gypsy  color  be 
neath  the  laughing  dusk  of  Diane's  eyes,  de 
voutly  thanked  his  lucky  star  that  Fate  had  seen 
fit  to  curb  the  air  of  delicate  hostility  with  which 
she  had  left  him  on  the  Westfall  lake.  Well, 
Emerson  was  right,  decided  Philip.  There  is  an 
inevitable  law  of  compensation.  Even  a  knife 
in  the  dark  has  compensations. 

"Johnny,"  said  Diane  presently,  briskly  dis 
interring  some  baked  potatoes  and  a  baked  fish 
from  a  cairn  of  hot  stones  covered  with  grass, 
"is  off  examining  last  night's  trail  of  melo 
drama.  He's  greatly  excited.  Let  me  pour  you 
some  coffee.  I  sincerely  hope  you're  not  too  fas 
tidious  for  tin  cups?" 

"A  tin  cup,"  said  Philip  with  engaging  can 
dor,  "has  always  been  a  secret  ambition  of  mine. 
I  once  acquired  one  at  somebody's  spring  but  — 
er — circumstances  compelled  me  to  relinquish 


84          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

it.  It  was  really  a  very  nice  cup  too  and  very 
new  and  shiny.  Since  then,  until  now,  my  life, 
alas!  has  been  tin-cupless." 

Diane  carved  the  smoking  fish  in  ominous 
silence. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said  at  length,  "  I've  felt 
once  or  twice  that  your  anecdotes  are  too  apt  and 
—  er — sparkling  to  be  overburdened  with  truth. 
Your  mechanician,  for  instance  — 

Philip  laughed  and  reddened.  The  mechani 
cian,  as  a  desperate  means  of  prolonging  conver 
sation,  had  served  his  purpose  somewhat  disas 
trously. 

"Hum!"  said  he  lamely. 

"  I  shan't  forget  that  mechanician ! "  said  Diane 
decidedly. 

"  This  now,"  vowed  Philip  uncomfortably,"  is 
a  real  fish ! " 

Diane  laughed,  a  soft  clear  laugh  that  to 
Philip's  prejudiced  ears  had  more  of  music  in  it 
than  the  murmur  of  the  river  or  the  clear,  sweet 
piping  of  the  woodland  birds. 

"  It  is,"  she  agreed  readily.  "  Johnny  caught 
him  in  the  river  and  I  cooked  him." 

"Great  Scott!"  exclaimed  Philip,  inspecting 
the  morsel  on  his  wooden  plate  with  altered  in 
terest,  "  you  don't — you  can't  mean  it ! " 

"Why  not?"  inquired  Diane  with  lifted  eye 
brows. 


In  the  Camp  of  the  Gypsy  Lady  85 

Philip  didn't  know  and  said  so,  but  he  glanced 
furtively  at  the  girl  by  the  fire  and  marveled. 

"Well,"  he  said  a  little  later  with  a  sigh  of 
utter  content,  "this  is  Arcadia,  isn't  it!" 

"  It's  a  beautiful  spot! "  nodded  Diane  happily, 
glancing  at  the  scarlet  tendrils  of  a  wild  grape 
vine  flaming  vividly  in  the  sunlight  among  the 
trees.  There  was  yellow  star  grass  along  the 
forest  path,  she  said  absently,  and  yonder  by  the 
stump  of  a  dead  tree  a  patch  of  star  moss  woven 
of  myriad  emerald  shoots ;  the  delicate  splashes  of 
purple  here  and  there  in  the  forest  carpet  were 
wild  geranium. 

"  There  are  alders  by  the  river,"  mused  Diane 
with  shining  eyes,  "and  marsh  marigolds;  over 
there  by  a  swampy  hollow  are  a  million  violets, 
white  and  purple;  and  the  ridge  is  thick  with 
mountain  laurel.  More  coffee?" 

"Yes,"  said  Philip.  "It's  delicious.  I 
wonder,"  he  added  humbly,  "if  you'd  peel  this 
potato  for  me.  A  one  cylinder  activity  is  not  a 
conspicuous  success." 

"I  should  have  remembered  your  arm,"  said 
Diane  quickly.  "  Does  it  pain  much  ? " 

"  A  little,"  admitted  Philip.  "  Do  you  know," 
he  added  guilelessly,  "  this  is  a  spot  for  singularly 
vivid  dreams.  Last  night,  for  instance,  exceed 
ingly  gentle  and  skillful  hands  slit  my  shirt  sleeve 
with  a  pair  of  scissors  and  bathed  my  shoulder 


86          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

with  something  that  stung  abominably,  and  some 
how  I  fancied  I  was  laid  up  in  a  hospital  and 
didn't  have  to  fuss  in  the  least,  for  my  earthly 
affairs  were  in  the  hands  of  a  nurse  who  was  very 
deft  and  businesslike  and  beautiful.  I  could 
seem  to  hear  her  giving  orders  in  a  cool,  matter- 
of-fact  way,  and  once  I  thought  there  was  some 
slight  objection  to  leaving  her  alone  —  and  she 
stamped  her  foot.  Odd,  wasn't  it  ? " 

"  Must  have  been  the  doctor,"  said  Diane,  ris 
ing  and  adding  wood  to  the  fire.  "  Johnny  went 
into  the  village  for  him." 

"Hum!"  said  Philip  doubtfully. 

"He  had  very  nice  hands,"  went  on  Diane 
calmly.  "They  were  very  skillful  and  gentle, 
as  you  say.  Moreover,  he  was  young  and  exceed 
ingly  good-looking." 

"Hum!"  said  Philip  caustically.  "With  all 
those  beauty  points,  he  must  be  a  dub  medically. 
What  stung  so?" 

"  Strong  salt  brine,  piping  hot,"  said  the  girl 
discouragingly.  "It's  a  wildwood  remedy  for 
washing  wounds." 

"Didn't  the  dub  carry  any  conventional  anti 
septics?" 

'You  are  talking  too  much!"  flashed  Diane 
with  sudden  color.  '  The  wound  is  slight,  but  you 
bled  a  lot;  and  the  doctor  made  particular  ref 
erence  to  rest  and  quiet." 


In  the  Camp  of  the  Gypsy  Lady  87 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Philip  in  deep  disgust. 
"There's  your  pretty  physician  for  you!  'Rest 
and  quiet '  for  a  knife  scratch.  Like  as  not  he'll 
want  me  to  take  a  year  off  to  convalesce ! " 

"  He  left  you  another  powder  to  take  to-night," 
remarked  Diane  severely.  "Moreover,  he  said 
you  must  be  very  quiet  to-day  and  he'd  be  in,  in 
the  morning,  to  see  you." 

Something  jubilant  laughed  and  sang  in 
Philip's  veins.  A  day  in  Arcadia  lay  temptingly 
at  his  feet. 

"  Great  Scott,"  he  protested  feebly.  "  I  can't. 
I  really  can't,  you  know — " 

"You'll  have  to,"  said  Diane  with  unsmiling 
composure.  "  The  doctor  said  so." 

"After  all,"  mused  Philip  approvingly,  "it's 
the  young  medical  fellows  who  have  the  finest  per 
ceptions.  I  do  need  rest." 

Off  in  the  checkered  shadows  of  the  forest  a 
crow  cawed  derisively. 

"Did  you  like  your  shirt?"  asked  Diane  with 
a  distracting  hint  of  raillery  under  her  long,  black 
lashes. 

"  It's  substantial,"  admitted  Philip  gratefully, 
"and  democratic." 

*  You've  still  another,"  she  said  smiling. 
"  Johnny  bought  them  in  the  village." 

"Johnny,"  said  Philip  gratefully,  "is  a 
trump." 


88          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Diane  filled  a  kettle  from  a  pail  of  water  by 
the  tree  and  smiled. 

"  There's  a  hammock  over  there  by  the  tent," 
she  said  pleasantly.  "Johnny  strung  it  up  this 
morning.  The  trees  are  drying  nicely  and  pres 
ently  I'm  going  to  wander  about  the  forest  with 
a  field  glass  and  a  notebook  and  you  can  take 
a  nap." 

Philip  demurred.  Finding  his  assistance  in 
exorably  refused,  however,  he  repaired  to  the 
hammock  and  watched  the  camp  of  his  lady  grow 
neat  and  trim  again. 

On  the  bright  embers  of  the  camp  fire,  the 
kettle  hummed. 

"  There  now,"  said  Philip  suddenly,  mindAal  of 
the  hot,  stinging  wound- wash,  "  that  is  the  noise 
I  heard  last  night  just  after  you  stamped  -our 
foot  and  before  the  doctor  came." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Diane  briskly.  "Your 
head's  full  of  fanciful  notions.  A  bump  like  that 
on  the  back  of  your  head  is  bound  to  tamper  some 
with  your  common  sense."  And  humming  lightly 
she  scalded  the  coffeepot  and  tin  cups  and  set 
them  in  the  sun  to  dry.  Philip's  glance  followed 
her,  a  winsome  gypsy,  brown  and  happy,  to  the 
green  and  white  van,  whence  she  presently  ap 
peared  with  a  field  glass  and  a  notebook. 

"  Of  course,"  she  began,  halting  suddenly  with 
heightened  color,  "  it  doesn't  matter  in  the  least 


In  the  Camp  of  the  Gypsy  Lady  89 

—  but  it  does  facilitate  conversation  at  times  to 
know  the  name  of  one's  guest  —  no  matter  how 
accidental  and  mysterious  he  may  be." 

"  Philip ! "  he  responded  gravely  but  with 
laughing  eyes.  "  It's  really  very  easy  to  remem 
ber."  Diane  stamped  her  foot. 

"I  do  think,"  she  flashed  indignantly,  "that 
you  are  the  most  trying  young  man  I've  ever 
met." 

"I'm  trying  of  course  — "  explained  Philip, 
"  trying  to  tell  you  my  name.  I  greatly  regret," 
he  went  on  deferentially,  "that  there  are  a 
number  of  exceptional  circumstances  which  have 
resulted  in  the  brief  and  simple  —  Philip.  For 
one  thing,  a  bump  which  muddles  a  man's  com 
mon  sense  is  very  likely  to  muddle  his  memory. 
And  so,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  can't  seem  to  con 
jure  up  a  desirable  form  of  address  from  you  to 
me  except  Philip.  And  Philip,"  he  added 
humbly,  "isn't  really  such  a  bad  sort  of  name 
after  all." 

There  was  the  whir  and  flash  of  a  bird's  wing 
in  the  forest  the  color  of  Diane's  cheek.  An  in 
stant  later  the  single  vivid  spot  of  crimson  in 
Philip's  line  of  vision  was  the  back  of  his  lady's 
sweater. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  BULLET  IN  ARCADIA 

"TT'S   time   you   were   in  bed,"   said   Diane. 

X  "Johnny's  out  staring  at  the  moon  and 
that's  the  final  chore  of  the  evening.  Besides, 
it's  nine  o'clock." 

"I  shan't  go  to  bed,"  Philip  protested. 
"Johnny  spread  this  tarpaulin  by  the  fire  ex 
pressly  for  me  to  recline  here  and  think  and 
smoke  and  b'jinks!  I'm  going  to!  After  buying 
me  two  shirts  yesterday  and  tobacco  to-day  —  to 
say  nothing  of  bringing  home  an  unknown 
chicken  for  invalid  stew,  I  can't  with  decency 
offend  him." 

"  I  can't  see  why  he's  taken  such  a  tremendous 
shine  to  you  1 "  complained  Diane  mockingly. 

"Nor  I!"  agreed  Philip,  knocking  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe. 

'  You've  been  filling  his  pockets  with  money ! " 
accused  Diane  indignantly.  "It's  the  only  ex 
planation  of  the  demented  way  he  trots  around 
after  you." 

"  Disposition,  beauty,  singular  grace  and  com 
mon  sense  all  pale  in  the  face  of  the  ulterior 
motive,"  Philip  modestly  told  his  pipe.  "  What 

90 


A  Bullet  in  Arcadia  91 

a  moon!"  he  added  softly.  "Great  guns,  what 
a  moon ! " 

Beyond,  through  the  dark  of  the  trees,  softly 
silvered  by  the  moon  above  the  ridge,  glimmered 
the  river,  winding  along  by  peaceful  forest  and 
meadows  edged  with  grass  and  mint.  There  was 
moon-bright  dew  upon  the  clover  and  high  upon 
the  ridge  a  tree  showed  dark  and  full  against  the 
moon  in  lonely  silhouette.  It  was  an  enchanted 
wood  of  moonlit  depth  and  noisy  quiet,  of  shrill 
ing  crickets,  the  plaintive  cries  of  tree  frogs,  the 
drowsy  crackle  of  the  camp  fire,  or  the  lap  of 
water  by  the  shore,  with  sometimes  the  lonely  hoot 
of  an  owl. 

"A  while  back,"  mused  Diane  innocently, 
"  there  was  a  shooting  star  above  the  ridge  —  " 

'Yes?"  said  Philip  puffing  comfortably  at  his 
pipe. 

"  I  meant  to  call  your  attention  to  it  but '  Hey ! ' 
and  'Look!'  were  dreadfully  abrupt." 

' There  is  always  —  'Philip! ' "  insinuated  that 
young  man.  Diane  bit  her  lip  and  relapsed  into 
silence. 

'You  didn't  tell  me,"  said  Philip  presently, 
"  whether  or  not  you  found  any  more  flowers  this 
morning." 

"Only  heaps  of  wild  blackberry,"  Diane  re 
plied  briefly.  "  But  the  trees  were  quite  as  devoid 
of  new  birds  as  Johnny's  detective  trip  of  clues." 


92          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"Too  bad!"  sympathized  Philip.  "I'll  go 
with  you  in  the  morning." 

"The  bump  on  your  head,"  suggested  Diane 
pointedly,  "is  growing  malignant!" 

"By  no  means!"  said  Philip  lazily.  "With 
the  exception  of  certain  memory  erasures,  it's 
steadily  improving." 

"  Why,"  demanded  Diane  with  an  unexpected 
and  somewhat  resentful  flash  of  reminiscence, 
"  why  did  you  tell  me  your  motor  was  deaf  and 
dumb  and  insane  when  it  wasn't?" 

"I  didn't,"  said  Philip  honestly.  "If  you'll 
recall  our  conversation,  you'll  find  I  worded  that 
very  adroitly." 

Thoroughly  vexed  Diane  frowned  at  the  fire. 

"Was  it  necessary  to  affect  callow  inexperi 
ence  and  such  a  happy-go-lucky,  imbecile  phil 
osophy?"  she  demanded  cuttingly. 

"Hum!"  admitted  Philip  humbly.  "I'm  a 
salamander." 

"And  you  said  you  were  waiting  to  be  res 
cued  ! "  she  accused  indignantly. 

Philip  sighed. 

"Well,  in  a  sense  I  was.  I  saw  you  coming 
through  the  trees  —  and  there  are  times  when  one 
must  talk."  He  met  her  level  glance  of  reproach 
with  one  of  frank  apology.  "If  I  see  a  man 
whose  face  I  like,  I  speak  to  him.  Surely  Nature 


A  Bullet  in  Arcadia  93 

does  not  flash  that  subtle  sense  of  magnetism  for 
nothing.  If  I  am  to  live  fully,  then  must  I  infuse 
into  my  insular  existence  the  electric  spark  of 
sympathetic  friendship.  Why  impoverish  my 
existence  by  a  lost  opportunity?  If  I  had  not 
alighted  that  day  upon  the  lake  and  waited  for 
you  to  come  through  the  trees  —  "  he  fell  suddenly 
quiet,  knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  upon  the 
ground  beside  him. 

"The  moon  is  climbing,"  said  Diane  irrelev 
antly,  "  and  Johnny  is  waiting  to  bandage  your 
shoulder." 

"Let  him  wait,"  returned  Philip  imperturb- 
ably.  "  And  no  matter  what  I  do  the  moon  will 
go  on  climbing."  He  lazily  pointed  the  stem  of 
his  pipe  at  a  firelit  tree.  "  What  glints  so  oddly 
there,"  he  wondered,  "when  the  fire  leaps?" 

"It's  the  bullet,"  replied  Diane  absently  and 
bit  her  lip  with  a  quick  flush  of  annoyance. 

"What  bullet?"  said  Philip  with  instant  in 
terest.  "  It's  odd  I  hadn't  noticed  it  before." 

"  Some  one  shot  in  the  forest  last  night  while 
Johnny  was  off  chasing  your  assailant.  Likely 
the  second  man  he  saw  cranking  the  car.  It  struck 
the  tree.  Johnny  and  I  made  a  compact  not  to 
speak  of  it  and  I  forgot.  My  aunt  is  fussy." 

"Where  were  you?"  demanded  Philip  ab 
ruptly. 


94          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  By  the  tree.    It-*- it  grazed  my  hair  —  " 

Philip's  face  grew  suddenly  as  changeless  as 
the  white  moonlight  in  the  forest. 

"Accidental  knives  and  bullets  in  Arcadia!" 
said  he  at  length.  "It  jars  a  bit." 

"I  do  hope,"  said  Diane  with  definite  disap 
proval,  "that  you're  not  going  to  fuss.  I  didn't. 
I  was  frightened  of  course,  for  at  first  I  thought 
it  had  been  aimed  straight  at  me  —  and  I  was 
quite  alone  —  but  startling  things  do  happen  now 
and  then,  and  if  you  can't  explain  them,  you  might 
as  well  forget  them.  I  hope  I  may  count  on  your 
silence.  If  my  aunt  gets  wind  of  it,  she'll  con 
jure  up  a  trail  of  accidental  shots  to  follow  me 
from  here  to  Florida  and  every  time  it  storms, 
she'll  like  as  not  hear  ghost-bullets.  She's  like 
that." 

"Florida!"  ejaculated  Philip  —  and  stared. 

"To  be  sure!  "said  Diane.  "Why  not?  Must 
I  alter  my  plans  for  somebody's  stray  bullet?" 

Philip  frowned  uneasily.  The  instinctive  pro 
test  germinating  irresistibly  in  his  mind  was  too 
vague  and  formless  for  utterance. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  stammered.  "  But  I 
fancied  you  were  merely  camping  around  among 
the  hills  for  the  summer." 

The  girl  rose  and  moved  off  toward  the  van 
looming  ghostlike  through  the  trees. 


A  Bullet  in  Arcadia  95 

"  Good  night — Philip  I"  she  called  lightly,  her 
voice  instinct  with  delicate  irony. 

Philip  stirred.    His  voice  was  very  gentle. 

"  Thank  you! "  he  said  simply. 

Diane  hastily  climbed  the  steps  at  the  rear 
of  the  van  and  disappeared. 

"I  hate  men,"  thought  Diane  with  burning 
cheeks  as  she  seated  herself  upon  the  cot  by  the 
window  and  loosened  the  shining  mass  of  her 
straight  black  hair,  "who  ramble  flippantly 
through  a  conversation  and  turn  suddenly  se 
rious  when  one  least  expects  it." 

By  the  fire,  burning  lower  as  the  moon  climbed 
higher,  Philip  lay  very  quiet.  Somehow  the 
moonlit  stillness  of  the  forest  had  altered  inde 
finably.  Its  depth  and  shadows  jarred.  Fair  as 
it  was,  it  had  harbored  things  sinister  and  evil. 
And  who  might  say — there  was  peace  of  course 
in  the  moon-silver  rug  of  pine  among  the  trees, 
in  the  gossamer  cobweb  there  among  the  bushes 
jeweled  lightly  in  dew,  in  the  faint,  sweet  chirp 
of  a  drowsy  bird  above  his  head  —  but  the  moon- 
ray  which  lingered  in  the  heart  of  the  wild  gera 
nium  would  presently  cascade  through  the  trees 
to  light  the  horrible  thing  of  "lead  which  had 
menaced  the  life  of  his  lady. 

Well,  one  more  pipe  and  he  would  go  to  bed. 
Johnny  must  be  tired  of  waiting.  Philip  slipped 
his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  whistled. 


96          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  So,"  said  he  softly,  "  the  hieroglyphic  cuff  is 
gone!  It's  the  first  I'd  missed  it." 

"  Like  as  not  it  dropped  out  of  my  pocket  when 
I  fell  last  night,"  he  reflected  a  little  later.  "  I'd 
better  go  to  bed.  I'm  beginning  to  fuss." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A   WOODLAND   GUEST 

THERE  was  gray  beyond  the  flap  of  Philip's 
tent,  a  velvet  stillness  rife  with  the  melody 
of  twittering  birds.  Already  the  camp  fire  was 
crackling.  Philip  rose  and  dressed. 

Beyond,  through  the  ghostly  trees  where  the 
river  glimmered  in  the  gray  dawn  with  a  pearly 
iridescence,  a  girl  was  fishing.  There  were 
deeper  shadows  in  the  hollows  but  the  sky  behind 
the  wooded  ridge  to  the  east  was  softly  opaline. 
As  the  river  grew  pink,  mists  rose  and  curled 
upward  and  presently  the  glaring  searchlight 
of  the  sun  streamed  brilliantly  across  the  river 
and  the  forest,  flinging  a  banner  of  shadow 
tracery  over  the  wakening  world. 

The  girl  by  the  river  caught  a  fish,  deftly 
strung  it  on  a  willow  shoot  beside  some  others  and 
bathed  her  hands  in  the  river.  Turning  she  smiled 
and  waved.  Philip  went  to  meet  her. 

"  Let  me  take  your  fish,"  he  offered. 

'Your  arm—    '  began  Diane. 

"  Pshaw! "  insisted  Philip.  "  It's  ever  so  much 
better.  I  can  even  use  my  hand." 

To  prove  it,  Philip  presently  armed  himself 
with  a  fork  and  developed  considerable  helpful 

97 


98          Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

interest  in  a  pan  of  fish.  Whereupon  a  general 
atmosphere  of  industry  settled  over  the  camp. 
Rex  and  Nero  acrobatically  locked  forepaws  and 
rolled  over  and  over  in  a  clownish  excess  of  con 
geniality.  Johnny  trotted  busily  about  feeding 
the  horses.  Diane  made  the  coffee,  arousing 
the  frank  and  guileless  interest  of  Mr.  Poynter. 

The  fish  began  to  sizzle  violently.  Considera 
bly  aggrieved  by  a  variety  of  unexpected  devel 
opments  in  the  pan,  Philip  harpooned  the 
smoking  segments  with  indignant  vim,  burned 
his  fingers,  made  reckless  use  of  the  wounded  arm 
and  regretfully  resigned  the  task  to  Johnny  who 
furtively  bestowed  certain  hot  sable  portions  of 
the  rescued  fish  upon  the  dogs,  thereby  arousing 
a  snarling  commotion  of  intense  surprise. 

"  That's  a  wonderful  bed  of  mine,"  commented 
Philip  at  breakfast.  "Tell  me  where  in  the 
world  did  you  get  your  camp  equipment  ? " 

"  I  made  the  bed  myself,"  said  Diane  happily, 
"of  red  willow  shoots  from  the  swamp,  and  I 
carved  these  forks  and  spoons  out  of  wood 
Johnny  gathered." 

"I  do  wish  I  were  clever!"  grumbled  Philip 
in  acute  discontent.  "  After  breakfast  I'm  going 
to  whittle  out  a  wildwood  pipe  and  make  a  birch 
canoe,  and  likely  I'll  weave  a  rush  mat  and  a 
willow  bed  and  carve  some  spoons  and  forks  and 
a  sundial." 


A  Woodland  Guest  99 

"  Will  you  be  through  by  noon?"  asked  Diane 
politely. 

Philip  laughed. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said  easily,  "I'm 
going  with  you  to  lamp  birds.  I  want  to  duck 
that  fool  doctor." 

'You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Diane 
with  decision,  "for  I'm  going  to  stay  in  camp 
and  bake  bread." 

The  bread  was  baking  odorously  and  a  variety 
of  shavings  flying  ambitiously  from  an  embryo 
pipe  by  ten  o'clock.  At  noon  the  doctor  had 
not  yet  arrived.  Philip  dexterously  served  a 
savory  fish  chowder  from  a  pot  hanging  within  a 
tripod  of  saplings  and  refused  to  dwell  upon  the 
thought  of  his  eventual  departure. 

A  man  appeared  among  the  trees  to  the  east, 
switching  absently  at  the  underbrush  with  a  cane. 

Philip  sniffed. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  nodded.  "That  medical 
dub  carries  a  cane  on  his  professional  rounds! 
Like  as  not  he  wears  a  flowing  tie,  a  monocle  and 
pink  socks." 

The  man  approached  and  raised  his  hat,  smil 
ing  urbanely.  It  was  Baron  Tregar. 

Philip  leaped  to  his  feet,  reddening. 

"Excellency!"  he  stammered. 

"Pray  be  seated!"  exclaimed  the  Baron  with 
sympathy.  "  Such  a  disturbing  experience  as 
you  have  had  affords  one  privileges." 


loo        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"Permit  me,"  said  Philip  uncomfortably  to 
Diane,  "  to  present  my  chief,  Baron  Tregar.  Ex 
cellency,  Miss  Westfall,  to  whom  I  am  eternally 
indebted."  And  Philip's  eyes  sparkled  with 
laughter  as  he  uttered  her  name. 

There  was  an  old  world  courtliness  in  the 
Baron's  bow  and  murmured  salutation. 

"  Ah,"  said  he  with  gallant  regret,  "  Fate,  Miss 
Westfall,  has  never  seen  fit  to  temper  misfortune 
so  pleasantly  for  me.  Poynter,  you  have  been 
exceedingly  fortunate." 

Diane  laughed  softly.  It  was  hers  to  triumph 
now. 

"Mr.  Poynter"  she  said  with  relish,  flashing 
a  sidelong  glance  at  that  discomfited  young  man, 
"  Mr.  Poynter  has  been  good  enough  to  make  the 
chowder.  It  would  gratify  me  exceedingly, 
Baron  Tregar,  to  have  you  test  it." 

Heartily  anathematizing  his  chief,  who  was 
gratefully  expressing  his  interest  in  chowder, 
Mr.  Poynter  stared  perversely  at  his  cuff. 

"I  wonder,"  he  reflected  uneasily,  "just  what 
he  wants  and  how  in  thunder  he  knew ! " 

The  Baron,  gracefully  adapting  himself  to 
woodland  exigencies,  supplied  the  answer. 

"Dr.  Wingate,"  he  boomed,  "is  at  the  Sher- 
ril  farm.  Themar  officiously  fancied  he  could 
fly  and  had  a  most  distressing  fall  yesterday 
from  the  smaller  biplane."  His  deep,  compelling 


A  Woodland  Guest  101 

eyes  lingered  upon  Philip's  face.  "  Dr.  Wingate 
spoke  some  of  an  unlucky  young  man  marooned 
in  a  forest  with  a  knife  wound  in  his  shoulder  — 
described  him — and  behold!  —  my  missing  sec 
retary  is  found  after  considerable  bewilderment 
and  uneasiness  on  my  part.  Wingate  will  stop 
here  later." 

Philip  civilly  expressed  regret  that  he  had  not 
thought  to  dispatch  Johnny  to  the  Sherrill  farm 
with  a  message. 

"It  is  nothing!"  shrugged  Tregar  smoothly. 
"  One  forgets  under  less  mitigating  causes." 
And,  having  begged  the  details  of  Philip's  ad 
venture,  he  listened  with  careful  attention. 

"It  is  exceedingly  mysterious,"  he  rumbled, 
after  a  frowning  interval  of  thought.  "But 
surely  one  must  feel  much  gratitude  to  you,  Miss 
Westfall.  A  night  in  the  storm  without  atten 
tion  and  we  have  complications." 

Over  his  coffee,  which  he  sipped  clear  with  the 
appreciation  of  an  epicure,  the  Baron,  in  his 
suave,  inscrutable  way,  grew  reminiscent.  He 
talked  well,  selecting,  discarding,  weighing  his 
words  with  the  fastidious  precision  of  a  jeweler 
setting  precious  stones.  Subtly  the  talk  drifted 
to  Houdania. 

There  was  a  mad  king — Rodobald — upon 
the  throne.  Doubtless  the  Baron's  hostess  had 
heard?  No?  Ah!  So  must  the  baffling  twist 


102        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

of  a  man's  brain  complicate  the  destiny  of  a 
kingdom.  And  Rodobald  was  hale  at  sixty-five 
and  mad  as  the  hare  of  March.  There  had  been 
much  talk  of  it.  Singular,  was  it  not? 

Followed  a  sparkling  anecdote  or  so  of  court 
life  and  shrugging  reference  to  the  jealous 
principality  of  Galituria  that  lay  beyond  in  the 
valley.  To  Galiturians  the  madness  of  King 
Rodobald  was  an  exquisite  jest. 

Philip  grew  restless. 

"  Confound  him ! "  he  mused  resentfully.  "  One 
would  think  I  had  deliberately  contrived  to  lin 
ger  here  merely  to  give  him  a  graceful  opportun 
ity  to  accomplish  his  infernal  errand  himself. 
Thank  Heaven  this  lets  me  out!"  He  glanced 
furtively  at  Diane.  The  girl's  interest  was  whole 
somely  without  qonstraint. 

"Great  guns!"  decided  Philip  fretfully.  "I 
doubt  if  she's  ever  heard  of  his  toy  kingdom  be 
fore  and  yet  he's  probing  her  interest  with  every 
atom  of  skill  he  can  command."  Puzzled  and 
annoyed  he  fell  quiet. 

"It  is  somewhat  inaccessible — my  country," 
Tregar  was  saying  smoothly.  "One  climbs  the 
shaggy  mountain  by  a  winding  road.  You  have 
climbed  it  perhaps — touring?" 

"  Excellency,  no! "  regretted  Diane.  "  I  fear  it 
is  quite  unknown  to  me." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  patriotic  Baron,  "that 


A  Woodland  Guest  103 

is  indeed  unfortunate.  For  it  is  well  worth  a 
visit."  He  turned  to  Philip.  'You  are  pale 
and  quiet,  Poynter,"  he  added  kindly.  "A  day 
or  so  more  perhaps  here  where  it  is  quiet  —  " 

Philip  flushed  hotly. 

" Excellency! "  he  protested  feebly. 

The  Baron  bowed  courteously  to  Diane. 

"If  I  may  crave  still  further  hospitality  and 
indulgence,"  he  begged  regretfully.  "There  is 
already  much  excitement  at  the  Sherrill  place 
owing  to  the  officious  act  of  my  man,  Themar, 
and  his  accident.  Another  invalid — my  secre 
tary —  one  flounders  in  a  dragnet  of  unfortunate 
circumstances.  And  I  am  sensitive  in  the  dis 
turbance  of  my  host's  guests  —  " 

Diane's  eyes  as  they  rested  upon  Philip  were 
very  kind. 

"Excellency,"  she  said  warmly,  "Mr.  Poyn- 
ter's  tent  lies  there  among  the  trees.  I  trust  he 
will  not  hesitate  to  use  it  until  he  is  strong  again. 
Fortunately  we  are  equipped  for  emergency." 

The  Baron  bowed  gratefully. 

'  You  are  a  young  woman  of  exceeding  com 
mon  sense! "  he  said  with  deep  respect. 

Philip  was  very  grateful  that  the  Baron  had 
not  misunderstood;  a  breath  might  shatter  the 
idyllic  crystal  into  atoms. 

Later,  when  the  Baron  had  departed,  Philip 
flushed  suddenly  at  the  ugly  suspicion  rising 


104        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

wraithlike  in  his  mind.  He  was  accustomed  to  the 
Baron's  subtleties. 

"  Mr.  Poynter! "  called  Diane. 

Mr.  Poynter  perversely  went  on  whittling  out 
the  hollow  of  his  wildwood  pipe. 

"Mr.  Poynter!" 

The  bowl,  already  sufficient  for  a  Titan's 
smoke,  grew  a  trifle  larger  and  somewhat  irreg 
ular.  Carving  had  conceivably  injured  Mr. 
Poynter's  hearing,  for  he  kept  on  whistling. 

"Philip!"  said  Diane  and  stamped  her  foot. 

'Yes?"  replied  Philip  respectfully,  and  in 
stantly  discarded  the  Titan's  pipe  to  listen. 

"  Why  are  you  so  quiet? "  flashed  Diane. 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,"  explained  Philip  cheer 
fully,  "I'm  mighty  busy  and  for  another,  I'm 
thinking." 

"Do  you  withdraw  into  a  sound-proof  shell 
when  you  think?" 

"Mr.  Poynter  does!"  regretted  Philip.  "/ 
do  not." 

"  I  do  hope,"  said  the  girl  demurely,  "  that 
you'll  be  able  to  hear  when  the  doctor  gets  here. 
He's  coining  through  the  trees." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BY  THE  BACKWATER  POOL 

THE  sun  had  set  with  a  primrose  glory  of 
reflection  upon  the  river  and  the  ridge. 
Over  there  in  the  west  now  there  was  a  pale  after 
glow  of  marigold.  It  streamed  across  the  dark, 
still  waters  of  the  backwater  pool  by  the  river  and 
faintly  edged  the  drowsy  petals  of  white  and 
yellow  lilies.  Already  distant  outline  and  per 
spective  were  hazy,  there  was  purple  in  the  forest, 
and  birds  were  winging  swiftly  to  the  woods. 

By  the  pool  with  a  great  mass  of  dripping  lilies 
at  his  side  to  carry  back  to  camp,  Philip  stared 
f rowningly  at  the  tangled  float  of  foliage  at  his 
feet.  Somehow  that  ugly  flash  of  suspicion  had 
persisted.  Why  had  the  Baron  wished  him  to  stay 
in  the  camp  of  Diane?  .  .  .  What  was  the 
portent  of  his  peculiar  interest  anyway? 

Philip  sighed. 

"Do  you  know,  Nero,"  he  confided  suddenly, 
patting  the  dog's  shaggy  head,  "my  life  is  de 
veloping  certain  elements  of  intrigue  and  mystery 
exceedingly  offensive  to  my  spread-eagle  tastes. 
There's  a  knife  and  a  bullet  now,  Johnny's  two 
men  and  the  auto,  and  a  cuff  and  a  most  mys 
terious  link  between  our  lady  and  the  Baron.  I'll 

105 


106        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

be  hanged  if  I  like  any  of  it.  And  why  in  thunder 
did  Themar  crib  an  aeroplane  and  bump  his  fool 
head? "  He  fell  suddenly  thoughtful. 

"As  for  you,  old  top,"  he  added  presently, 
"  you  ought  to  go  home.  Dick  will  be  fussing." 

Nero  waggled  ambiguously.     Philip  nodded. 

"Right,  old  man,"  he  admitted  with  sudden 
gravity.  "  I  can  always  depend  upon  you  to  set 
me  right.  It's  nothing  like  so  essential  for  you 
to  go  as  it  is  for  me.  You  did  right  to  mention  it. 
I  ought  to  dig  out  —  all  the  more  because  the 
Baron  wants  me  to  stay — but  I've  been  thinking 
a  bit  this  afternoon  and  unusual  problems  demand 
unusual  solutions.  You'll  grant  that?"  Nero 
politely  routed  an  excursive  bug  from  his  path 
and  lay  down  to  listen. 

"Mr.  Poynter!"  called  a  voice  fom  the  dark 
ling  trees  behind  him. 

Mr.  Poynter  smiled  and  fell  deliberately  to  fill 
ing  the  bowl  of  his  wildwood  pipe.  Gnarled  and 
twisted  and  marvelously  eccentric  was  this  wild- 
wood  pipe  and  therefore  an  object  of  undoubted 
interest.  The  bowl  had  somehow  eluded  Philip's 
desperate  effort  to  keep  it  of  reasonable  dimen 
sions  and  required  a  Gargantuan  supply  of 
tobacco. 

"Mr.  Poynter!" 

"My  Lord!"  murmured  Philip,  staring  rue 
fully  into  the  pipe-bowl.  "  the  infernal  thing  is 


By  the  Backwater  Pool         107 

bottomless!  Exit  another  can  of  tobacco.  I'll 
have  to  ask  Johnny  to  buy  me  a  barrel."  And 
Philip  flung  the  empty  can  into  the  pool  whence 
a  frog  leaped  with  a  frightened  croak. 

"Philip!" 

"Mademoiselle!"  said  Philip  pleasantly. 

Darkly  lovely,  Diane's  eyes  met  his  with  a 
glance  of  indignant  reproach.  Somehow  her  lips 
were  like  a  scarlet  wound  in  the  gypsy  brown  skin 
and  her  cheeks  were  hot  with  color. 

"A  wildwood  elf  of  scarlet  and  brown!" 
thought  Philip  and  hospitably  flicked  away  a  twig 
or  so  with  his  handkerchief  that  she  might  sit 
down. 

"  There's  water  plantain  over  there  in  the  bog," 
he  said  lazily,  "and  swamp  honeysuckle.  And 
see,"  he  turned  out  his  pockets,  "  swamp  apples. 
Queer,  aren't  they  ?  Johnny  says  they're  good  to 
eat.  The  honeysuckle  was  full  of  them." 

Diane  bit  daintily  into  the  peculiar  juicy  pulp. 

"A  man  of  your  pernicious  good  humor,"  she 
said  greatly  provoked,  "is  a  menace  to  civiliza 
tion.  You  sap  all  the  wholesome  fire  of  one's 
most  cherished  resentment." 

"  I  know,"  admitted  Philip  humbly.  "  I'll  be 
hanged  yet." 

"  I  can't  see  what  in  the  world  you  find  so  ab 
sorbing  over  here,"  she  commented  with  marked 
disapproval.  "  All  the  while  I  was  getting  supper 


108       Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

I  watched  you.  And  you  merely  smoked  and 
flipped  pebbles  in  the  pool  and  kept  supper 
waiting." 

'You're  wrong  there,"  said  Philip.  "I've 
been  thinking,  too." 

"I'd  like  to  know  just  why  you've  been  think 
ing  so  deeply!" 

"Honest  Injun?" 

"Honest  Injun!" 

"  Well,"  said  Philip  slowly,  "  I've  been  review 
ing  the  possible  mishaps  incident  to  a  caravan 
trip  to  Florida." 

"Mishaps!"  Diane  studied  him  in  frank  dis 
pleasure.  "  Are  you  a  fussy  pessimist  ? " 

"By  no  means.  Merely — prudent."  Philip's 
eyes  narrowed  thoughtfully  and  he  fell  silent. 

The  iris  shadows  beyond  the  river  deepened. 
A  firefly  or  so  flickered  brightly  above  the  fields 
of  clover.  In  the  soft  clear  twilight,  fragrant 
with  the  smell  of  clover  and  water  lily  and  rimmed 
now  by  the  rising  moon,  Philip  found  his  resolu 
tion  of  the  afternoon  difficult  to  utter.  The  pool 
at  his  feet  was  a  motionless  mirror  of  summer 
stars.  Surely  there  could  be  nothing  but  peace  in 
this  tranquil  world  of  tree  and  grass  and  murmur 
ing  river.  And  yet  — 

"Do  take  that  ridiculous  pipe  out  of  your 
mouth  and  say  something!"  exclaimed  Diane 
restlessly.  "  You  look  as  if  you  were  smoking  a 


By  the  Backwater  Pool         109 

pumpkin !  Besides,  the  supper's  all  packed  up  in 
hot  stones  and  grass  to  keep  it  hot.  Why  moon 
so  and  shoot  pebbles  at  the  frogs?" 

"  Well,"  said  Philip  abruptly,  "  do  you  mind  if 
I  say  that  your  trip  seems  a  most  imprudent 
venture?" 

"By  no  means!"  replied  Diane  with  madden 
ing  composure.  "  But  it's  only  fair  to  warn  you 
that  my  aunt's  already  said  all  there  is  to  say  on 
the  subject.  The  horses  may  drop  dead,"  she 
reviewed  swiftly  on  her  slim  brown  fingers, 
"Johnny  may  fall  heir  to  an  apoplectic  fit  and 
fall  on  a  horse  thereby  inducing  him  to  run  away 
into  a  swamp  and  sink  in  quicksand.  I  may  be 
kidnapped  and  held  for  ransom  in  the  wilds  of 
Connecticut  and  the  van  may  burn  up  some  night 
when  I'm  asleep  in  it.  Then  I  may  eat  poison 
berries  in  a  fit  of  absent-mindedness,  I  may  fall 
into  a  river  while  I'm  fishing,  forget  how  to  swim, 
and  drown,  Johnny  may  gather  amanitas  and  kill 
us  both,  and  something  or  other  may  bite  me. 
There  are  one  or  two  other  little  things  like  forest 
fires,  floods  and  brigands  — " 

"  Help ! "  murmured  Philip. 

"Can  you  add  anything  to  that?"  demanded 
Diane  politely. 

Philip  laughed.  Diane,  delicately  sarcastic, 
was  irresistible. 

"There  is  the  bullet  —  "  he  reminded  gravely. 


no        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"Please!"  begged  Diane  faintly. 

Philip  flushed  with  a  sense  of  guilt. 

"Well,"  he  owned,  "I  have  bothered  you  a 
lot  about  it,  that's  a  fact!  But  it  sticks  so  in 
my  mind.  There's  something  else  — 

'Yes?"  said  Diane  discouragingly. 

"  Didn't  you  tell  me  yesterday  that  you'd  had 
a  feeling  some  one  had  been  spying  on  your 
camp?" 

'  Yes,"  said  Diane  in  serious  disapproval.  "  I 
did.  I  get  seizures  of  confidential  lunacy  once  in 
a  while.  Are  you  going  to  fuss  about  that? " 

"  No,"  said  Philip  gently.  "  But  the  knife  and 
the  bullet  and  that  have  made  me  wonder  —  a 
lot.  After  all,"  he  regretted  sincerely,  "  my  no 
tions  are  very  vague  and  formless,  but  I  feel  so 
strongly  about  them  that — urging  my  friend 
ship  for  Carl  as  my  sole  excuse  for  unasked  ad 
vice  to  his  cousin  —  " 

"Yes?" 

Philip  laid  aside  his  pipe  with  a  sigh.  The 
crisp  music  of  his  lady's  voice  was  not  encour 
aging. 

"  I  do  hope  you'll  forgive  me,"  he  said  quietly, 
"  but  I'm  going  to  urge  you  to  abandon  your  trip 
to  Florida!" 

"Mr.  Poynter!"  flashed  Diane  indignantly. 
'  The  bump  on  your  head  has  had  a  relapse.  Bet 
ter  let  Johnny  go  for  the  doctor  again." 


By  the  Backwater  Pool         111 

"I  know  I'm  infernally  presumptuous,"  ac 
knowledged  Philip  flushing,  "  but  I'm  terribly  in 
earnest." 

Diane's  eyes,  wide,  black,  rebuking,  scanned 
his  troubled  face  askance. 

"I  ought  to  be  exceedingly  angry,"  she  said 
slowly,  "  and  if  it  wasn't  for  the  bump,  like  as  not 
I  would  be  —  but  I'm  not." 

"I'm  truly  grateful,"  said  Philip  with  a  sigh 
of  relief.  And  added  to  himself,  "Philip,  old 
top,  you're  in  for  it." 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Diane,  "I've  never  been 
so  happy  in  my  life  as  I  have  been  here  by  this 
beautiful  river!" 

"Nor  I!"  said  Philip  truthfully. 

Diane  did  not  hear. 

"  Every  wild  thing  calls,"  she  went  on  im 
petuously.  "  It  always  has.  Fish — bird  —  wild 
flower — the  smell  of  clover — the  hum  of  bees  — 
I  can't  pretend  to  tell  you  what  they  all  mean 
to  me.  Even  as  a  youngster  I  frightened  my 
aunt  half  to  death  by  running  away  to  sleep  in 
the  forest.  I'm  sorry  I'll  ever  have  to  go  back 
to  civilization!" 

"And  yet,"   insisted   Philip   inexorably,  "to 
me    it    seems    that    you    should    go    back- 
to-morrow!" 

"I  do  seem  to  feel  a  stir  of  temper !"  said 
Diane  reflectively.  "Maybe  I'd  better  go  back 


112        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

and  look  at  supper.  You  can  come  after  you're 
through  pelting  that  frog." 

"There's  still  another  reason,"  said  Philip 
humbly,  "which  I  can't  tell  you.  Indeed,  I 
ought  not  mention  it.  I  can  only  beg  you  to  take 
it  on  trust  and  believe  that  it's  another  forcible 
argument  against  your  trip.  Somehow,  every 
thing  in  my  mind  weaves  into  a  gigantic  warn 
ing.  So  disturbing  is  the  notion,"  added  Philip 
unquietly,  "that— 

'  Yes  ? "  queried  Diane  politely. 

"That  after  much  thought,  I  have  decided  to 
stay  here  in  camp  until  you  abandon  your  no 
madic  scheme  and  break  camp  for  home.  There'll 
come  a  time,  I'm  sure,  when  you'll  think  as  I  do 
to  get  rid  of  me." 

Diane  rose  with  suspicious  mildness. 

"I'm  hungry,"  she  said,  "and  Johnny's 
yodeling." 

"  Well,"  said  Philip  provokingly,  "I  don't  be 
lieve  I  want  any  supper  after  all.  The  atmos 
phere's  too  chilly." 


CHAPTER  XV 

JOKAI   OF   VIENNA 

IT  WAS  insolent  music,  a  taunt  in  every  note. 
Carl  laid  aside  his  flute  and  inspected  his  pris 
oner  with  impudent  interest. 

'You  are  the  most  difficult  person  to  enter 
tain!"  he  accused  softly.  "Here  Hunch  has 
strained  a  sinuous  spine  performing  our  beautiful 
native  dances,  the  tango  and  the  hesitation,  and 
I've  fluted  up  all  the  wind  in  the  room  and  still 
you  glower." 

"  Monsieur,"  broke  forth  the  prisoner,  goaded 
beyond  endurance  by  the  stifling  heat  and  the 
stench  of  Hunch's  pipe,  "is  it  not  enough  to 
imprison  me  here  without  reason,  that  you  must 
taunt  and  gibe  — "  he  choked  indignantly  and 
stared  desperately  at  the  boarded  windows. 

"Let  your  voice  out,  do!"  encouraged  Carl. 
"  We  dispensed  with  the  caretaker  days  ago,  fear 
ing  you'd  feel  restricted." 

The  other's  face  was  livid. 

"Monsieur!"  he  cried  imperiously,  his  eyes 
flashing.  "Take  care!" 

"  I  know,"  said  Carl  soothingly,  "  that  you  have 
deep,  dark,  sinister  possibilities  Within  you  — 
dear,  yes !  You  tried  something  of  the  sort  on  the 

113 


Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Ridge  Road.  That's  why  your  august  head's  so 
badly  bruised.  But  why  aggravate  your  blood 
pressure  now  when  it's  so  infernally  hot  and 
you've  work  ahead.  Hunch,"  he  added  carelessly 
to  the  admiring  henchman  who  had  once  dealt 
away  successive  slices  of  his  inheritance,  "  go  get 
a  pitcher  of  ice  water  and  rustle  up  another  siphon 
of  seltzer  and  some  whiskey.  Likely  His  Nibs 
and  I  will  play  chess  again  to-night." 

Hunch  rose  from  a  chair  by  the  window  where 
he  had  flattened  his  single  good  eye  against  a  knot 
hole,  and  slouched  heavily  to  the  door. 

The  face  of  the  prisoner  slowly  whitened. 
Every  muscle  of  his  body  quivered  suddenly  in 
horrible  revulsion.  Nights  of  enforced  drunken 
ness  had  left  his  nerves  strained  to  the  breaking 
point. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  panted,  greatly  agitated,  "  the 
whiskey  —  the  thought  of  it  again  to-night  —  is 
maddening." 

Carl  merely  raised  ironical  eyebrows. 
'You  are  not  a  man,"  choked  the  other, 
shaking.  'You  are  a  nameless  demon!  Such 
hellish  originality  in  the  conception  of  evil,  such 
singular  indignities  as  you  have  seen  fit  to  inflict, 
they  are  the  freaks  of  a  madman ! " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Carl  politely.  "  One  likes 
to  have  one's  little  ingenuities  appreciated." 

"I  —  I  am  ill  —  and  the  room  is  stifling." 


Jokai  of  Vienna 

"  If  I  do  not  mind  it,"  said  Carl  in  aggrieved 
surprise,  "  why  should  you? " 

"  You  are  a  thing  of  steel  and  infernal  fire.  I 
am  but  human." 

"  There  is  a  way  to  stop  it  all,"  reminded  Carl, 
lazily  relighting  his  cigar.  "  Why  not  give  me  a 
logical  reason  for  your  presence  in  America?" 

"  I  have  done  so.  Have  I  not  said  again  and 
again  that  I  am  Sigimund  Jokai,  of  Vienna, 
touring  in  America?" 

'You  have  said  so,"  agreed  Carl  imperturb- 
ably,  "  but  you  lie.  There  was  an  empty  chamber 
in  your  revolver,  you  were  perilously  close  to  my 
cousin's  camp.  Why?  Is  it  not  better  to  tell  me 
than  foolishly  to  waste  such  splendid  nerve  and 
grit  as  you  possess  ? " 

The  prisoner  moistened  his  bloodless  lips  and 
shrugged. 

"Monsieur,"  he  accused  coldly,  "you  tinge 
commonplace  incidents  with  melodrama." 

"Days  ago  —  er — Jokai  of  Vienna,"  went  on 
Carl  thoughtfully,  "  I  dispatched  a  formal  com 
munication  to  your  country.  Why  has  it  been 
ignored?  Why  did  my  first  inkling  of  its  effect 
come  in  the  sight  of  your  face  in  suspicious  terri 
tory?  And  why,  Monsieur,"  purred  Carl  softly, 
"  did  you  seek  to  kill  me  by  a  trick? " 

"Monsieur,  you  delayed  me.  I  am  hot  of 
temper  — 


116        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"And  kill  whoever  angers  you?  My  dear 
Jokai,  that's  absurd.  As  for  your  singular  indif 
ference  to  the  burning  car  —  that's  easy.  You'd 
stolen  it.  But  why?" 

He  smiled  slightly  and  picked  up  his  flute. 
With  infinite  softness  a  waltz  danced  lightly 
through  the  quiet  room.  To  such  a  fanciful,  eerie 
piping  might  the  ghost  of  a  child  have  danced. 
Then  without  pause  or  warning  it  swung  dramat 
ically  into  a  stirring  melody  of  power  and  dignity. 

The  wretched  man  by  the  table  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands  and  groaned. 

"Ah!"  said  Carl  softly.  "So  Monsieur  has 
heard  that  tune  before?  That  in  itself  is  illum 
inating." 

With  a  leer  Hunch  entered  and  deposited  a 
tray  upon  the  table.  Carl  poured  himself  some 
whiskey  and  pushed  the  decanter  toward  his  guest 
with  a  significant  glance.  Jokai  of  Vienna 
poured  and  drank  with  a  shudder  of  nausea. 

" We've  a  new  chessboard,"  said  Carl.  "It's 
most  ingenious.  Hunch  spent  a  large  part  of  his 
valuable  morning  shopping  for  it.  The  board  and 
chessmen  are  metal  and  I  myself  have  added  one 
or  two  unique  improvements.  Help  yourself  to 
some  more  whiskey  —  do." 

"Monsieur,"  faltered  Jokai  desperately,  "I 
—  I  can  not." 


Jokai  of  Vienna  117 

"  Hunch,"  said  Carl  softly.  "  His  Nibs  won't 
drink." 

Instantly  from  the  wired  metal  points  of 
Jokai's  chair  a  stinging  electric  current  swept 
fiendishly  through  his  body.  Last  night  it  had 
goaded  him  unspeakably.  To-night,  with  every 
tortured  nerve  leaping,  it  was  unbearable.  Shak 
ing,  he  poured  again  and  drank  —  great  drops  of 
sweat  starting  out  upon  his  forehead.  Where  the 
rope  bound  his  ankles  the  flesh  was  aching  dully. 

" Mercy ! " he  choked.    "I  —  I  can  not  bear  it." 

"There  is  a  way  to  stop  it!"  reminded  Carl 
curtly.  "The  ivory  chessmen  for  me,  Hunch. 
And  whenever  he  refuses  to  drink — start  the 
current." 

With  the  metal  chessboard  before  him,  Carl 
idly  arranged  his  ivory  men.  Jokai  touched  a 
metal  pawn  and  shuddered  violently.  The  metal 
board  was  wired.  Thenceforth  every  move  in  the 
game  he  must  play  with  the  metal  men  would  com 
plete  the  circuit  and  send  the  biting  needles 
through  his  frame.  It  was  delicately  gauged,  a 
nerve-racking  discomfort  without  definite  pain,  a 
thing  to  snap  the  dreadful  tension  of  a  man's 
endurance  at  the  end. 

"Ah!  Monsieur!"  cried  Jokai  wildly.  "It  is 
inconceivable  — 

"Play!"  said  Carl  briefly.  White  and  grim 
his  guest  obeyed. 


118        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

In  terrible  silence  they  played  the  game  through 
to  the  end. 

"  Let  me  pour  you  some  more  whiskey,"  insisted 
Carl  with  infernal  courtesy.  "  Let  us  understand 
each  other.  Whenever  I  drink,  I  expect  you  to 
do  the  same.  As  for  you,  Hunch,  you'll  kindly 
stay  sober!" 

Jokai  gulped  the  nauseating  torture  to  the  end. 
He  was  faint  and  sick.  By  the  end  of  the  third 
game,  every  move  had  become  convulsive.  The 
insidious  bite  of  the  current  was  getting  horribly 
on  his  nerves.  Still  with  desperate  will  he  played 
on.  Drunk  and  dizzy — his  veins  hot  and  pound 
ing,  he  stared  in  fascinated  horror  at  the  face  of 
his  merciless  opponent.  Through  the  film  of 
smoke  it  loomed  vividly  dark,  impudent,  ironic, 
the  mobile  mouth  edged  satirically  with  a  slight 
smile. 

"Are  you  man  or  devil?"  he  whispered. 

Carl  laughed.  His  hand,  for  all  his  drinking, 
was  calm  and  steady,  his  handsome  eyes  clear  and 
cold  and  resolute. 

"Hunch,"  he  said  curtly,  "if  you  touch  that 
bottle  again,  I'll  break  it  over  your  head.  You're 
drunk  now." 

To  Jokai  his  voice  trailed  off  into  curious  noth 
ingness.  Somewhere  he  knew  in  a  room  stifling 
hot  and  hazy  with  the  fumes  of  vile  tobacco  there 
was  a  voice,  musical,  detached  and  very  far  away. 


Jokai  of  Vienna  119 

"Monsieur,"  it  was  saying,  "  there  are  still  the 
questions." 

With  shaking  hand  Jokai  touched  a  metal  king 
and  screamed.  The  heat  and  the  hell-board  hard 
upon  his  days  and  nights  of  enforced  drinking 
were  too  much.  With  a  strangled  sob,  Jokai  of 
Vienna  pitched  forward  upon  the  board 
unconscious. 

Carl  swept  the  metal  men  away  with  a  shrug. 

"Poor  devil!"  he  said  pityingly.  "All  this 
hell  sooner  than  answer  a  question  or  two.  By 
to-morrow  night,  with  another  dose  of  the  same 
medicine,  he'll  feel  differently.  Likely  I'll  run 
up  to  Connecticut  to-night,  Hunch,  to  see  my 
aunt.  I'll  be  back  by  noon  to-morrow.  Tear  off 
the  window  boards  and  give  him  some  more  air. 
You  can  move  him  to  another  room  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

Hunch  obeyed,  and  presently  as  the  street 
door  slammed  behind  his  chief,  Hunch's  single 
eye  roved  expectantly  to  the  forgotten  whiskey 
on  the  table.  Jokai  lay  in  a  motionless  stupor 
by  the  window.  It  would  be  morning  before  the 
hapless  drinker  would  be  quite  himself  again. 
With  brutal,  powerful  arms,  Hunch  bore  his 
charge  to  an  adjoining  room  and  consigned  him 
disrespectfully  to  a  bed.  Then  with  a  fresh  bot 
tle  of  whiskey  in  his  hand,  he  returned  to  the 
open  window,  leered  pleasantly  at  the  dizzy  glare 


120        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

of  city  lights  beyond  and  henceforth  devoted 
himself  to  getting  very  drunk.  Having  gratified 
this  bibulous  ambition  to  the  uttermost,  he  fell 
asleep.  The  morning  sunlight  flaming  at  last 
on  his  coarse,  bloated  face  awoke  him  to  resent 
ful  consciousness.  Glowering  at  the  bright, 
warm  light  with  his  single  eye,  Hunch  rolled 
away  into  the  shadow  and  went  to  sleep  again. 

Below  on  the  porch,  with  an  outraged  care 
taker's  letter  in  her  hand  bag,  Aunt  Agatha 
turned  her  latchkey  resolutely  in  the  lock. 

"  I  just  will  not  have  it ! "  reflected  Aunt  Aga 
tha  defiantly.  "I  certainly  will  not.  And  I'd 
have  been  here  yesterday  if  Mary  hadn't  insisted 
upon  my  spending  the  night  with  her.  Well  do 
I  remember  how  Carl  installed  himself  here  last 
year  with  a  Japanese  servant  and  invited  that 
good-looking  Wherry  boy  to  come  and  scratch  the 
furniture.  I  don't  suppose  Carl  invited  him  for 
that  purpose,"  added  Aunt  Agatha  fairly,  "  but 
he  did  it,  anyway.  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see 
why  it  is  that  young  Mr.  Wherry  is  perpetually 
making  scratches  where  his  feet  rest.  And  I'm 
sure  he  left  his  footprint  on  the  piano  and  thun 
dered  through  every  roll  on  the  player,  for 
they're  all  out  of  place,  and  the  Williston  care 
taker  heard  him,  though  like  as  not  it  was  Carl 
for  that  matter.  He's  a  Westfall,  and  he'd  do 


Jokai  of  Vienna  121 

it  if  he  felt  like  it,  dear  knows !  Though  I  must 
say  Carl  detests  bangy  music." 

Still  rambling,  Aunt  Agatha,  having  fussed 
considerably  over  the  extraction  of  the  key, 
halted  in  the  hallway,  appalled  by  the  utter  lone 
liness  of  the  darkened  rooms.  Beyond  in  the 
library  a  clock  boomed  loudly  through  the  quiet. 
Somewhere  upstairs  a  dull,  choking  rasp  broke 
the  soundless  gloom.  Aunt  Agatha  began  to 
flutter  nervously  up  the  stairway. 

"It's  Carl  of  course!"  she  murmured  in  a 
panic.  "I  just  know  it  is.  I've  never  known  him 
to  even  gurgle  —  much  less  snore  in  his  sleep. 
Like  as  not  his  windows  are  still  boarded  up  and 
he's  suffocating.  Only  a  Westfall  would  think 
of  such  a  thing." 

Puffing,  Aunt  Agatha  halted  at  her  nephew's 
door.  That  and  the  one  adjoining  were  locked. 
There  was  a  den  beyond.  Making  her  way  to 
a  door  of  which  Hunch  was  ignorant,  Aunt  Aga 
tha  opened  it  and  gasped.  Fully  clothed,  a  man 
whose  feet  and  hands  were  securely  bound,  lay 
muttering  upon  the  bed,  his  jargon  incompre 
hensibly  foreign. 

"God  deliver  us  from  all  West  falls!"  wept 
Aunt  Agatha.  "Carl's  kidnapped  an  immi 
grant!" 

With  unwavering  determination  in  her  round, 
aggrieved  eyes,  she  swept  majestically  to  the  bed 
and  shook  the  sleeper  severely. 


122        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  My  good  man,"  she  demanded,  "  what  do  you 
mean  by  lying  here  on  a  lace  spread  with  your 
feet  tied  and  your  head  scarred?" 

Jokai  of  Vienna  stirred  and  moaned.  Aunt 
Agatha  fumbled  for  her  smelling  salts  and  ad 
ministered  a  most  heroic  draft.  Sputtering,  Jokai 
awoke  from  his  restless  stupor  and  stared. 

From  the  room  adjoining  came  again  the  dull, 
choking  rasp  of  Hunch's  heavy  slumber.  Flut 
tering  hurriedly  to  the  doorway,  Aunt  Agatha 
stared  in  horror  at  the  littered  room  and  Hunch, 
the  latter  no  reassuring  sight  at  his  best,  and 
thence  with  fascinated  gaze  at  Jokai  of  Vienna. 
With  wild  imploring  eyes  Jokai  glanced  at  his 
hands  and  feet.  Miraculously  Aunt  Agatha  un 
derstood.  After  an  interval  of  petrified  indeci 
sion,  during  which  she  trembled  violently  and 
made  inarticulate  noises  in  her  throat,  she  flut 
tered  excitedly  from  the  room  and  returned  with 
a  pair  of  scissors.  Urged  to  noiseless  activity 
by  Jokai's  fear  of  the  sleeper  in  the  farther  room, 
she  cut  the  ropes  which  bound  him  and  led  him 
stealthily  to  the  hall  below. 

"You  poor  thing!"  whispered  Aunt  Agatha 
in  hysterical  sympathy.  *  You're  as  pale  as  a 
ghost.  I  don't  wonder — ' 

But  Jokai  of  Vienna  was  already  bolting  wild 
ly  through  the  street  door  and  down  the  steps. 
Aunt  Agatha  burst  into  aggrieved  tears. 


Jokai  of  Vienna  123 

"  I  don't  in  the  least  know  what  it's  all  about," 
she  sniffed,  greatly  frightened,  "but  what  with 
the  immigrant  bolting  out  of  the  house  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  without  so  much  as  a  word  of  thanks  — 
such  a  nice  distinguished  fellow  as  he  was,  too, 
for  all  he  smelt  of  liquor!  —  and  Carl  nowhere  in 
sight  —  and  a  fat  young  man,  with  a  hairy  chest 
exposed,  sleeping  on  a  whiskey  bottle  and  snor 
ing  like  a  prisoner  file,  it  does  seem  most  mysteri 
ous —  that's  a  fact!  And  my  knees  have  folded 
up  and  I  can't  budge.  Mother's  knees  used  to 
fold  up  this  way,  too.  God  bless  my  soul ! "  wept 
the  unfortunate  lady.  "  I  do  wish  I  were  dead." 

With  a  desperate  effort  Aunt  Agatha  un 
folded  her  knees  sufficiently  to  bear  her  weight 
and  turning,  screamed  wildly.  Hunch  Dorrigan 
was  stealing  catlike  down  the  stairs,  his  bloated 
vicious  face  leering  threateningly  at  her  over  the 
railing. 

'You  old  she- wolf!"  roared  that  elegant 
young  man.  "Where's  His  Nibs?" 

Aunt  Agatha  moistened  her  dry  lips  and,  gur 
gling  fearfully,  fainted.  When  at  length  she  be 
came  conscious  again,  Hunch,  glowering  fiercely, 
was  returning  from  a  futile  chase.  With  a  re 
sentful  flash  of  brutality  he  towered  suddenly 
above  her  and  began  to  curse.  Aunt  Agatha, 
bristling,  sat  up. 

"Don't  you  dare  speak  to  me  like  that  after 


124        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

breathing  vulgar  liquor  fumes  all  over  my  niece's 
house  and  tying  up  that  nice  foreign  gentleman," 
she  quavered  weakly.  "Don't  you  dare!  I  live 
in  this  house,  young  man,  and  Carl  will  see  to  it 
that  I'm  protected.  He  always  has.  He's  very 
good  to  me." 

Hunch  glowered  sullenly  at  her,  fearful,  in  the 
face  of  her  relationship  to  Carl,  of  committing 
still  another  unforgivable  offense. 

"  I  once  knew  a  stout  young  man  with  a  glass 
eye,"  she  gulped  with  increasing  courage,  "and 
he  was  hanged  by  the  neck  until  he  was  dead  — 
quite  dead  —  and  then  they  cut  his  body  down 
and  his  relatives  took  it  away  in  a  cart  and  on  the 
way  home  it  came  to  life  — " 

Aunt  Agatha  halted  abruptly,  vaguely  con 
scious  that  this  somewhat  felicitous  ending  to 
the  tragedy,  as  an  object  lesson  to  Hunch,  left 
much  to  be  desired. 

"  Leave  the  house ! "  she  commanded  with  shrill 
•  magnificence,  for  all  her  hair  and  dress  were 
awry,  and  her  round  face  flushed.  "Leave  the 
house." 

Hunch  shrugged  and  obeyed.  It  was  nearly 
noon  and  there  was  no  single  east-side  ac 
quaintance — no,  not  even  Link  Murphy,  the  ter 
rible —  whom  he  feared  as  he  feared  Carl  Gran- 
berry. 

Weeping,  Aunt  Agatha  watched  him  go. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  YOUNG  MAN  OF  THE  SEA 

DIANE  was  to  learn  that  the  infernal  per 
sistence  of  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  of  Ara 
bian  origin  could  find  its  match  in  youth.  A  week 
slipped  by.  Philip  wove  an  unsatisfactory  mat  of 
sedge  upon  a  loom  of  cord  and  stakes,  whittled 
himself  a  knife  and  fork  and  spoon  which  he  in 
itialed  gorgeously  with  the  dye  of  a  boiled  alder, 
invented  a  camp  rake  of  forked  branches,  made  a 
broom  of  twigs,  and  sunk  a  candle  in  the  floor 
of  his  tent  which  he  covered  with  a  bottomless 
milk  bottle.  All  in  all,  he  told  Nero,  he  was  evo- 
luting  rapidly  into  an  excellent  woodsman,  de 
spite  the  peculiar  appearance  of  the  sedge  mat. 

When  Diane  was  honestly  indignant,  Philip 
was  quiet  and  industrious,  and  accomplished  a 
great  deal  with  his  knife  and  bits  of  wood.  When, 
finding  his  cheerful  good  humor  irresistible,  she 
was  forced  to  fly  the  flag  of  truce,  he  was  pro 
foundly  grateful. 

"When  do  you  think  you'll  go?"  demanded 
Diane  pointedly  one  morning  as  she  deftly 
swung  her  line  into  the  river.  "  Unless  you  con 
trive  to  get  stabbed  again,"  she  added  doubtfully, 
"  I  really  don't  see  what's  keeping  you." 

125 


126        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  When  I  may  help  you  break  camp  and  escort 
you  back  to  your  aunt,"  replied  Philip  pleasantly, 
"  I'll  pack  up  my  two  shirts  and  my  wildwood  pipe 
and  depart,  exceedingly  grateful  for  my  stay  in 
Arcadia." 

Diane  bit  her  lip  and  frowned. 

"  Suppose,"  she  flashed,  with  angry  scarlet  in 
her  cheeks,  "  suppose  I  break  camp  and  leave  you 
behind!" 

"  I'll  go  with  you,"  shrugged  Philip.  "  Don't 
you  remember?  I  told  you  so  before.  And  I'll 
sit  on  the  rear  steps  of  the  van  all  the  way  to 
Florida  and  play  a  tin  whistle." 

Appalled  by  the  thought  of  the  spectacular 
vagaries  which  this  Young  Man  of  the  Sea  might 
develop  if  she  took  to  the  road,  Diane  said 
nothing. 

"  No  matter  how  I  view  you,"  she  indignantly 
exclaimed  a  little  later,  "  you're  a  problem." 

"  Settle  the  problem,"  'advised  Philip.  "  It's 
simple  enough." 

"He'll  go  presently,"  she  told  herself  resent 
fully.  "He'll  have  to." 

"  How  it  amuses  these  fish  to  watch  me  murder 
worms!"  exclaimed  Philip  in  deep  disgust. 
"  Look  at  the  audience  over  there!  I  attract  'em 
and  you  get  'em !  Miss  Westf all,  are  you  a  slave 
driver?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Diane  cautiously. 


The  Young  Man  of  the  Sea     127 

Philip's  most  innocent  beginnings  frequently  led 
into  argumentative  morasses  for  his  opponent. 

"  Does  Johnny  have  complete  freedom  in  your 
camp?" 

"Certainly!"  exclaimed  Diane  warmly. 
"  Johnny  is  old  and  faithful.  He  may  do  as  he 
pleases." 

Philip  changed  an  anaemic  worm  of  consid 
erable  transparency  for  one  of  more  interest  to 
his  river  audience  and  smiled. 

"Johnny,"  said  he  cheerfully,  "has  been  good 
enough  to  invite  me  to  stay  in  camp  with  him 
indefinitely.  I'm  his  guest,  in  fact,  until  you  go 
home.  I  imagine  that  as  Johnny's  guest  I  ought 
to  enjoy  immunity  from  sarcastic  shafts,  but  I 
may  be  mistaken.  I've  washed  and  drained  most 
of  these  worms.  Will  you  lend  me  an  inch  or  so 
of  that  stout  invertebrate  climbing  out  of  the  can 
by  you?" 

Thoroughly  out  of  patience,  Diane  reeled  in 
her  line  and  returned  to  camp,  whence  she  pres 
ently  heard  Philip  blithely  whistling  a  fisherman's 
hornpipe  and  urging  Nero  to  retrieve  certain 
sticks  he  had  thrown  into  the  river.  A  little  later 
he  caught  a  sunfish  and  swung  into  camp  with 
such  a  smile  of  irresistible  pride  and  good  humor 
on  his  sun-browned  face,  that  Diane  laughed  in 
spite  of  herself. 

"  How  ridiculous  it  is! "  she  mused  uncomfort- 


128        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

ably.  "  Here  I  may  not  depart  for  fear  a  happy- 
go-lucky  young  man  will  play  a  tin  whistle  on  the 
steps  of  the  van,  and  I  will  not  go  home.  What  in 
the  world  am  I  to  do  with  him?  Are  you  an 
orphan?"  she  asked  with  guileful  curiosity. 

"No/'  said  Philip. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Diane  maliciously.  "For 
then  I  could  take  out  papers  of  adoption  —  " 

"  I'll  stay  without  them,"  promised  Philip. 
And  Diane  added  wood  to  the  fire  with  cheeks 
like  the  scarlet  sunset. 

"I'm  going  to  send  for  my  aunt,"  she  an 
nounced  a  few  days  later. 

"Yes?  "said  Philip. 

"  Unconventionality  of  any  sort  shocks  her 
dreadfully.  Like  as  not  she'll  faint  dead  away 
at  the  sight  of  you  domiciled  in  my  camp  as  if  you 
own  it.  She'll  see  that  you  go." 

"  Better  not,"  advised  Philip. 

"Why?" 

"  I'll  produce  credentials  proving  I'm  a  reput 
able  victim  of  circumstances.  I'll  suggest  that 
in  complete  concurrence  with  her  I  deem  it 
unsafe  for  a  young  and  attractive  girl  to  tour 
about  the  country — and  that  I  do  not  feel  that 
I  can  conscientiously  depart.  Between  the  two 
of  us  you'll  likely  have  a  most  uncomfortable  hour 
or  so." 

Aunt  Agatha  was  impressionable.     It  needed 


The  Young  Man  of  the  Sea     129 

but  a  spark  of  concurrence  to  arouse  her  dread 
fully.  Diane  dismissed  the  project. 

"  I  think,"  she  said  hopefully,  "  that  you'll  most 
likely  go  to-night." 

"  In  any  circumstances,"  said  Philip  easily,  "  I 
fear  that  would  be  impossible.  Johnny's  behind 
with  the  laundry  and  I  haven't  a  collarable  shirt." 
Whereupon  he  whistled  for  Nero  and  set  off 
amiably  through  the  woods  to  gather  an  inacces 
sible  flower  he  knew  his  lady  would  prize. 

By  nine  that  night  Diane  was  asleep  in  the  van. 
Philip,  with  whom  she  had  indignantly  crossed 
swords  a  little  earlier,  lay  thoughtfully  by  the 
fire  watching  the  snowy  curtains  of  the  van 
windows  billowing  lazily  in  the  warm  night  wind. 
He  felt  restless  and  perturbed  and  presently 
sought  his  tent,  where  he  lit  the  bottled  candle  to 
look  for  the  predecessor  of  his  insatiable  wildwood 
pipe,  but  halted  suddenly  with  a  peculiar  whistle. 

The  silk  shirt  he  had  worn  from  Sherrill's  lay 
conspicuously  upon  the  bed,  washed  and  ironed 
and  beautifully  mended  up  the  slashed  sleeve  and 
along  the  shoulder.  As  a  laundress  of  parts, 
Johnny  was  a  j  ewel,  but  he  could  not  mend ! 

Now  oddly  enough  as  Mr.  Poynter  stared  at 
the  shirt  upon  the  bed,  his  appearance  was  that  of 
a  young  man  decidedly  out  of  sorts.  Presently 
with  an  ominous  glint  of  temper  in  his  fine  eyes, 
he  noiselessly  rearranged  his  tent,  viciously 


130        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

donned  the  off  ending  shirt,  whistled  for  Nero  and 
leaving  the  camp  of  his  lady  as  unexpectedly  as  he 
had  entered  it,  set  out  for  Sherrill's. 

Even  the  most  equable  of  tempers,  it  would 
seem,  may  now  and  then  prove  crotchety. 

And  who  may  say  ?  Mr.  Poynter  was  a  young 
man  of  infinite  resource.  And  there  were  other 
ways. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN  WHICH  THE  BARON  PAYS 

"T71XCELLENCY,"  said  Philip  politely,  "I 

•   ^  have  returned." 

"Ah!"  said  the  Baron  cordially,  marveling 
somewhat  at  the  forbidding  glint  in  the  young 
man's  eyes.  He  was  to  learn  presently  its  portent. 

Within  doors,  a  few  men  chatted  in  the  billiard 
room.  A  girl  was  singing.  The  Baron,  however, 
was  the  only  occupant  of  the  comfortable  porch- 
room  with  the  green-shaded  lamp,  to  which  Philip 
had  come,  passing  Themar,  who  had  left  a  tray 
of  ice  and  creme  de  menthe  upon  the  table. 

With  his  customary  deliberation  the  Baron 
selected  a  glass,  filled  it  with  shaved  ice,  which 
he  as  carefully  covered  with  green  creme  de 
menthe,  and  pushed  the  delectable  result  across 
the  table  to  his  secretary. 

Philip  accepted  with  a  formal  expression  of 
thanks. 

"  I  am  delighted,"  rumbled  the  Baron,  sipping 
his  iced  mint  with  keen  appreciation,  "  to  see  that 
you  are  fully  recovered." 

"  And  Themar?"  inquired  Philip  coldly. 

"He  was  not  injured  so  badly  as  I  feared," 
admitted  Tregar  slowly. 

131 


132        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"His  accident,"  commented  Philip  quietly, 
"was  to  say  the  least  coincidental  —  and  con 
venient." 

"  Just  what  do  you  mean? " 

"  Just  why,"  begged  Philip  icily,  "  did  you  wish 
me  to  intrude  further  upon  the  hospitality  of 
Miss  Westf  all?" 

"  There  was  an  errand,"  reminded  the  Baron 
blandly.  "Having  discharged  it  myself,  Poyn- 
ter,  I  might  —  er  —  trust  to  you  to  report  its  con 
sequences.  There  are  possibilities  of  confidences 
over  a  camp  fire  —  " 

'You  expected  me  to  —  spy  upon  Miss 
Westfall?" 

"Even  so." 

"Pray  believe,"  said  Philip  stiffly,  "that  any 
confidence  of  Miss  Westfall's  would  have  been  to 


me — as  vour  own." 


"  I  am  to  understand  then,"  commented  His 
Excellency  suavely,  "that  you  made  absolutely 
no  effort  —  " 

'You  are  to  understand  just  that,"  said 
Philip  quietly.  "  Moreover,"  he  manfully  met  his 
chief's  level  glance  with  one  of  inexorable  deci 
sion,  "  I  sincerely  regret  that  hereafter  I  shall  be 
unable  to  discharge  my  duties  as  your  secretary." 

The  Baron  stirred. 

"  I  may  be  honored  by  your  reasons,  Poynter?  " 
he  inquired  quietly. 


In  Which  the  Baron  Pays       133 

"The  duties  of  a  spy,"  flashed  Philip,  "are 
peculiarly  offensive  to  me.  So  is  Themar." 

"Themar!" 

"  Excellency,"  said  Philip  curtly,  "  to-night  as 
I  entered,  the  lamplight  fell  full  upon  the  face 
and  throat  of  your  valet." 

"Yes?" 

"Themar's  throat,  Excellency,  bears  peculiar 
scars." 

"My  dear  Poynter!  Themar's  fall  injured 
him  severely  about  the  face  and  hands." 

"  I  have  not  forgotten,"  insisted  Philip  grimly, 
"that  Miss  Westf all's  servant  sunk  his  terrible 
ringers  into  the  throat  of  the  man  whose  knife  scar 
I  bear.  Whether  or  not  his  knife  was  meant  for 
me,  I  can  not  say.  Nor  have  I  sufficient  proof 
openly  to  accuse  him,  but  of  this  much  I  am  con 
vinced.  Themar's  presence  near  the  camp  of 
Miss  Westf  all  is,  in  the  face  of  your  peculiar  and 
secretive  errand,  ominously  significant." 

The  Baron  sighed.  There  was  frank  hostility 
in  Philip's  eyes. 

"Miss  Westf all,"  added  Philip  hotly,  "is  the 
unsuspecting  victim  of  a  peculiar  network  of 
mystery  of  which  I  feel  you  hold  the  key.  Her 
camp  is  constantly  spied  upon.  Upon  the  night 
of  the  storm  there  were  two  men  lurking  mysteri 
ously  in  the  forest  near  her  camp  fire.  The  knife 
of  one  I  was  unfortunate  enough  to  receive.  The 


134        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

other,"  Philip's  eyes  glinted  oddly,  "the  other, 
Excellency,"  he  finished  slowly,  "  tried,  I  firmly 
believe— to  kill  Miss  Westfall." 

"Impossible!"  exclaimed  the  Baron,  greatly 
shocked. 

"  If  I  might  know  the  nature  of  your  peculiar 
interest  in  Miss  Westfall,"  urged  Philip  bluntly, 
"I  would  have  greater  faith  in  your  apparent 
surprise." 

The  Baron  reddened. 

"That  is  quite  impossible,"  he  regretted  for 
mally.  "  Pray  believe  that  you  have  magnified  its 
importance  into  exceedingly  ludicrous  propor 
tions.  I  fear  I  am  obliged  to  dispense  with  your 
faith  in  my  integrity  on  the  conditions  you  men 
tion.  Your  resolution  to  leave  me  —  that  is 
final?" 

"Entirely  so." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  the  Baron  simply.  And, 
meeting  his  chief's  eyes,  Philip  felt  somewhat 
ashamed  of  one  or  two  of  his  highly  colored  sus 
picions  and  reddened  uncomfortably. 

"It  is  at  least  —  comforting,"  observed  the 
Baron  quietly,  "  to  feel  that  whatever  I  may  have 
said  in  confidence  to  you  will  be  honorably 
forgotten." 

"  Excellency,"  said  Philip  with  spirit,  "  though 
I  may  not  speak  to  Miss  Westfall  of  your  interest 
or  my  suspicions,  for  reasons  which  need  no  nam- 


In  Which  the  Baron  Pays      135 

ing  among  gentlemen,  it  is  but  fair  to  warn  you 
that  henceforth  I  shall  regard  myself  as  person 
ally  responsible  for  her  safety." 

''Gallantly  spoken!"  declared  the  older  man, 
and  watched  his  secretary,  as  he  bowed  and  with 
drew,  with  more  regret  than  he  had  seen  fit  to 
express.  -Then,  lying  back  in  his  chair  he  listened 
with  unsmiling  attention  as  Philip  entered  the 
billiard  room  with  a  laughing  shot  of  abuse  for 
Dick  Sherrill  which  aroused  an  immediate  uproar 
of  welcome. 

Watching  the  Baron's  narrowed  eyes,  one 
might  have  wondered  greatly.  For  Baron  Tre- 
gar  looked  very  tired  and  grim.  At  length,  hav 
ing  smoked  his  cigar  quite  to  the  end,  he  went  up 
to  his  room  and  summoned  Themar. 

"Ah,  Themar!"  said  he  softly,  and  laughed 
with  peculiar  relish. 

Themar  shifted  restlessly. 

"  Excellency,"  he  began,  uncomfortably  aware 
of  unpleasant  mockery  in  his  chief's  keen  eyes. 

The  Baron  matched  the  tips  of  his  powerful 
fingers  and  studied  them  intently. 

"  Themar,"  said  he  acidly,  "  within  a  fortnight 
I  have  lost  a  car  whose  burned  remains  were  found 
several  miles  from  here,  and  a  secretary  whose 
friendship  and  invaluable  service  I  prize  more 
highly  than  your  life.  I  feel  that  you  can  to  some 
extent  explain  both  of  these  disasters." 


136        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  Excellency  knows,"  reminded  Themar  glibly, 
"that  the  car  was  stolen  from  the  Sherrill 
garage." 

"I  have  merely  supposed  so,"  corrected  the 
Baron  coldly.  And  rising  he  inspected  the  cu 
rious  scars  upon  his  valet's  throat  with  interest. 
"Odd!"  he  purred,  "that  an  aeroplane  may  sim 
ulate  the  marks  of  tearing  fingers."  Swept  by  a 
sudden  gust  of  terrible  anger,  he  gripped  The- 
mar's  shoulders  and  shook  him  until  the  valet's 
face  was  dark  with  fear. 

"Why,"  hissed  the  Baron,  "did  you  lie?  Why 
did  you  go  to  the  West  fall  camp  and  attack 
Poynter?  Why  did  you  swear  these  scars  came 
from  a  disastrous  flight  in  a  stolen  aeroplane? 
Why  have  you  been  spying  upon  Miss  Westfall 
when  I  expressly  forbade  it? " 

"Excellency,"  choked  Themar,  horrified  by 
the  Baron's  unprecedented  display  of  passion, 
"there  was  a  blunder — I  dared  not  tell." 

"Who  blundered?"  thundered  his  chief. 

"I.  Cranberry,  I  thought,  was  to  go  to  his 
cousin's  camp,"  panted  Themar  quaking.  "I 
heard  Sherrill  telephone  —  later  he  told  some 
men  —  " 

'You  took  the  car — "  prompted  the  Baron 
icily. 

"I  —  I  did  not  know  it  was  Poynter  until  he 


In  Which  the  Baron  Pays       13T 

fell,"  urged  Themar  trembling.  "Cranberry 
and  he  are  similar  in  build." 

"Who  attempted  to  kill  Miss  Westfall?" 
blazed  the  Baron,  shaking  his  valet  into  chatter 
ing  subjection. 

"Excellency,  I  know  not!"  protested  Themar 
swallowing  painfully.  "  There  was  still  another 
man  —  he  dashed  ahead  and  stole  the  car." 

After  all,  reflected  the  Baron  wryly,  in  this 
damnable  muddle  he  must  still  use  Themar.  To 
antagonize  him  now  would  be  foolhardy.  Where 
fore,  with  a  civil  expression  of  regret  at  his  loss 
of  temper  and  certain  curt  instructions,  he  dis 
missed  Themar,  sullen  and  chastened,  and  be 
took  himself  to  an  open  window,  where  he  sat 
smoking  thoughtfully  until  the  house  grew  quiet 
and  one  by  one  the  lights  in  the  valley  faded  out. 
In  the  web  which  had  engulfed  one  by  one,  him 
self,  Themar,  Cranberry  Miss  Westfall  and 
Poynter,  a  murderous  stranger  was  floundering. 
Who  and  what  he  was,  it  behooved  His  Excel 
lency  to  discover. 

"It  would  seem,"  reflected  the  Baron  with 
grim  humor  as  he  thought  of  his  car  and  his  sec 
retary,  "that  I  am  paying  heavily  for  my  part 
in  a  task  not  greatly  to  my  liking." 

In  the  adjoining  room  behind  locked  doors, 
Themar  worked  feverishly  upon  a  cipher  in 
scribed  upon  a  soiled  linen  cuff. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

NOMADS 

"  JOHNNY!"  said  Diane  in  crisp,  distinct 
«J  tones,  "  Mr.  Poynter  has  slept  long  enough. 
You'd  better  call  him." 

Now  it  is  a  regrettable  fact  that  ordinarily  this 
attack  would  have  provoked  a  reply  of  mild  im 
pudence  from  Mr.  Poynter's  tent,  but  this  morn 
ing  a  surprising  silence  lay  behind  the  flapping 
canvas.  Diane  began  to  hum.  When  presently 
investigation  proved  that  Mr.  Poynter's  tent  was 
in  exemplary  order — that  Mr.  Poynter  and  his 
mended  shirt  were  missing — she  went  on  hum 
ming —  but  to  Johnny's  amazement,  burned  her 
fingers  on  the  coffeepot ;  sharply  reproved  John 
ny  for  staring,  and  then  curtly  suggested  that  he 
prepare  to  break  camp  that  morning,  as  it  was 
high  time  they  were  on  the  road. 

"  As  for  Mr.  Philip  Poynter,"  reflected  Diane 
with  delicate  disdain,  as  she  bent  over  the  fire  and 
rolled  some  baked  potatoes  away  with  a  stick, 
"  what  can  one  expect?  Men  are  exceedingly  pe 
culiar  and  inconsistent  and  impudent.  I  haven't 
the  ghost  of  a  doubt  that  he  found  that  ridiculous 
shirt  and  went  off  in  a  huff.  And  I'm  very  glad 
he  did — very  glad  indeed.  I  meant  he  should, 

138 


Nomads  139 

though  I  didn't  suppose  with  his  unconscionable 
nerve  it  would  bother  him  in  the  least.  If  a 
man's  sufficiently  erratic  to  blow  a  tin  whistle  all 
the  way  to  Florida  —  as  Philip  certainly  is  —  and 
maroon  himself  on  somebody  else's  lake  for  fear 
he'd  miss  an  acquaintance,  he'd  very  likely  fly 
into  a  rage  when  one  least  expected  it  and  go 
tramping  off  in  the  night.  I  do  dislike  people 
who  fall  into  huffs  about  nothing." 

Diane  burned  her  fingers  again,  felt  that  the 
fire  was  unnecessarily  hot  upon  her  face,  and  in 
dignantly  resigning  the  preparation  of  breakfast 
to  Johnny,  went  fishing. 

"  He  should  have  gone  long  ago,"  mused  Di 
ane,  flinging  her  line  with  considerable  force  into 
the  river.  "  It's  a  great  mercy  as  it  is  that  Aunt 
Agatha  didn't  appear  and  weep  all  over  the  camp 
about  him.  I'm  sorry  I  mended  the  shirt.  Not 
but  that  I  was  fortunate  to  find  something  that 
would  make  him  go,  but  a  shirt's  such  a  childish 
thing  to  fuss  about.  And,  anyway,  I  preferred 
him  to  leave  in  a  friendly,  conventional  sort  of 
way!" 

There  are  times,  alas,  when  even  fish  are  per 
verse!  Thoroughly  out  of  patience,  Diane 
presently  un jointed  her  rod,  emptied  the  can  of 
worms  upon  the  bank,  and  returned  to  camp, 
where  she  found  Johnny  industriously  piling  up 
a  heap  of  litter. 


140        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  these?"  de 
manded  Diane,  indicating  an  eccentric  woodland 
broom  and  a  rake  of  forked  twigs  and  twine. 
"Throw  them  out?" 

Johnny  nodded. 

"Well,  I  guess  you're  not!"  sniffed  Diane  in 
dignantly.  "  They're  mighty  convenient.  That 
rake  is  really  clever." 

Johnny's  round  eyes  showed  his  astonishment. 
He  had  heard  his  perverse  young  mistress  malign 
these  inventions  of  Philip's  most  cruelly. 

Then  what  a  woodland  commotion  arose  after 
breakfast!  What  a  cautious  stamping  out  of 
fire  and  razing  of  tents!  What  a  startled  flut 
ter  of  birds  above  and  bugs  below !  What  an  ex 
cited  barking  on  the  part  of  Rex,  who  after  loaf 
ing  industriously  for  a  week  or  so,  felt  called 
upon  to  sprint  about  and  assist  his  mistress  with 
a  dirt-brown  nose !  What  a  trampling  of  horses 
and  a  creaking  of  wheels  as  the  great  green 
wagon  wound  slowly  through  the  shadowy  forest 
road  and  took  to  the  open  highway  with  Rex  at 
his  mistress's  feet  haughtily  inspecting  the  way 
side. 

And  what  a  wayside,  to  be  sure!  Past  fields 
of  young  rye  from  which  a  lazy  silver  smoke 
seemed  to  rise  and  follow  the  wind-billowing 
grain;  past  fields  of  dark  red  clover  rife  with 
the  whir  and  clatter  of  mowing  machines  as  the 


Nomads  141 

farmers  felled  the  velvety  stalks  for  clover  hay; 
past  snug  white  farmhouses  where  perfumed 
peonies  drooped  sleepily  over  brick  walks;  on 
over  a  rustic  bridge,  skirting  now  a  tiny  village 
whose  church  spire  loomed  above  the  trees;  now 
following  a  road  which  lay  rough  and  deeply 
rutted,  among  golden  fields  of  buttercups 
fringed  with  bunch  grass. 

Farmers  waved  and  called;  housewives  looked 
and  disapproved;  children  stared  and  jealous  ca 
nines  pettishly  barked  at  the  haughty  Rex;  but 
Johnny  only  chuckled  and  cracked  his  whip.  Day 
by  day  the  green  and  white  caravan  rumbled  se 
renely  on,  camping  by  night  in  field  and  forest. 

A  country  world  of  peace  and  sunshine  —  of 
droning  bees  and  the  nameless  fragrance  of  sum 
mer  fields  it  was !  And  the  struggling  nomads  of 
the  dusty  road !  Diane  felt  a  kindred  thrill  of  in 
terest  in  each  one  of  them.  Now  a  Syrian  peddler 
woman,  squat  and  swarthy,  bending  heavily  be 
neath  her  pack  amid  a  flurry  of  dust  from  the 
sun-baked  roads  her  feet  had  wearily  padded 
for  days;  now  a  sleepy  negro  on  a  load  of  hay, 
an  organ  grinder  with  a  chattering  monkey  or 
a  clumsy  bear,  another  sleepy  negro  with  another 
load  of  hay,  and  a  picturesque  minstrel  with  an 
elaborate  musical  contrivance  drawn  by  a  horse. 
Now  a  capering  Italian  with  a  bagpipe,  who 
danced  grotesquely  to  his  own  piping,  and  piped 


142        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

the  pennies  out  of  rural  pockets  as  if  they  had 
been  so  many  copper  rats  from  Hamelin! 

Peddlers  and  tramps  and  agents,  country 
drummers  and  country  circuses,  medicine  men 
who  shouted  the  versatile  merits  of  corn  salve 
by  the  light  of  flaring  torches,  eccentric  orators 
of  eccentric  theology,  tent-shows  of  "Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin,"  with  real  bloodhounds  and  unreal 
painted  ice,  gypsies  who  were  always  expected  to 
steal  some  one's  children  and  never  did,  peddlers 
with  creaking,  clinking  wagons,  hucksters  and 
motorcyclists,  motorists  and  dusty  hikers  —  one 
by  one  in  the  days  to  come  Diane  was  to  meet 
them  all  and  learn  that  the  nomads  of  the  summer 
road  were  a  happy-go-lucky  guild  of  peculiar 
and  cooperative  good  humor. 

But  the  girl  herself  was  a  truer  nomad  than 
many  to  whom  with  warm  friendliness  she  nodded 
and  spoke. 

Late  one  afternoon  Diane  espied  a  woodland 
brook.  Shot  with  gold  and  shadow,  it  laughed 
along,  under  a  waving  canopy  of  green,  freckled 
with  cool,  clean  pebbles  and  hiding  roguishly  now 
and  then  beneath  a  trailing  branch.  A  brook  was 
a  luxury.  It  was  mirror  and  spring  and  lullaby 
in  one. 

By  six  the  tents  of  the  nomad  were  pitched  by 
the  forest  brook  and  the  nomad  herself  was 


Nomads  143 

smoothing  back  her  ruffled  hair  over  a  crystalline 
mirror. 

A  drowsy  negro  on  a  load  of  hay  drove  by  on 
the  road  beyond. 

Diane  studied  him  with  critical  interest. 

"Johnny,"  she  said,  "just  why  are  there  so 
many  drowsy  negroes  about  driving  loads  of  hay? 
Or  is  that  the  same  one  ?  And  if  it  is,  where  under 
Heaven  has  he  been  driving  that  hay  for  the  last 
three  days?" 

Johnny  didn't  know.  Wherefore  he  pursed 
his  lips  and  shook  his  head. 

The  hay  wagon  turned  off  into  the  forest  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  road  and  halted.  The 
drowsy  negro  leisurely  alighted  and  shuffled 
through  the  trees  until  he  stood  before  Diane 
with  a  square  of  birch  bark  in  his  hand.  Greatly 
astonished  —  for  this  negro  was  apparently  too 
lazy  to  talk  when  he  deemed  it  unnecessary  — 
Diane  took  the  birch  bark  and  inspected  it  in 
mystification.  A  most  amazing  message  was 
duly  inscribed  thereon. 

"  Erastus  has  acquired  a  sinewy  chicken  from 
somebody's  barn  yard,"  it  read.  !<  Why  not  bring 
your  own  plate,  knife,  fork,  spoon  and  a  good  saw 
over  to  my  hay-camp  and  dine  with  me? 

"Philip." 

Diane  stared  with  rising  color  at  the  load  of 
hay.  From  its  ragged,  fragrant  bed,  a  tall,  lean 


144        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

young  man  with  a  burned  skin,  was  rising  and 
lazily  urging  a  nondescript  yellow  dog  to  do 
the  same.  The  dog  conceivably  demurred,  for 
Philip  removed  him,  yelping,  by  the  simple  pro 
cess  of  seizing  him  by  the  loose  skin  at  the  back 
of  his  neck  and  dropping  him  overboard.  Hav 
ing  brushed  his  clothes,  the  young  man  came, 
with  smiling  composure,  through  the  forest,  the 
yellow  dog  waggling  at  his  heels. 

"I've  read  so  much  about  breaking  the  news 
gently,"  apologized  Philip,  smiling,  "that  I 
thought  I'd  better  try  a  bit  of  it  myself.  Hence 
the  sylvan  note.  Ras,  if  you  go  to  sleep  by  that 
tree,  I'll  like  as  not  let  you  sleep  there  until  you 
die.  Go  back  to  camp  and  build  a  fire  and  hollow 
out  the  feathered  biped." 

Ras  slouched  obediently  off  toward  the  hay- 
camp. 

*  You've  hay  in  your  ears!"  exclaimed  Diane, 
biting  her  lips. 

"I'm  a  nomad!"  announced  Philip  calmly. 
"So's  Erastus  —  so's  Dick  Whittington  here. 
I'm  likely  to  have  hay  in  my  ears  for  months  to 
come.  Dick  Whittington,"  explained  Philip, 
patting  the  dog,  "  is  a  mustard-colored  orphan  I 
picked  up  a  couple  of  days  ago.  He'd  made  a 
vow  to  gyrate  steadily  in  a  whirlwind  of  dust  after 
a  hermit  flea  who  lived  on  the  end  of  his  tail,  until 
somebody  adopted  him  and  —  er  —  cut  off  the 


Nomads  145 

grasping  hermit.  I  fell  for  him,  but,  like  Ras,  a 
sleep  bug  seems  to  have  bitten  him." 

"Most  likely  he  unwinds  in  his  sleep,"  sug 
gested  Diane  politely.  And  added  acidly, 
"Where  are  you  going?' 

"  Florida ! "  said  Philip  amiably. 

The  girl  stared  at  him  with  dark,  accusing 
eyes. 

'The  trip  is  really  no  safer  now,"  reminded 
Philip  steadily,  "  than  it  was  when  I  left  camp." 

"In  a  huff!"  flashed  Diane  disparagingly. 

"  In  a  huff,"  admitted  Philip  and  dismissed 
the  dangerous  topic  with  a  philosophic  shrug. 

"  I  won't  have  you  trailing  after  me  on  a  hay- 
wagon!"  exclaimed  I)iane  in  honest  indignation. 

"  Hum!  Just  how,"  begged  Philip,  " does  one 
go  about  effecting  a  national  ordinance  to  keep 
hay-carts  off  the  highway?" 

As  Philip  betokened  an  immediate  desire  to 
name  over  certain  rights  with  which  he  was  vested 
as  a  citizen  of  the  United  States,  Diane  was  more 
than  willing  to  change  the  subject.  Persistence 
was  the  keynote  of  Mr.  Poynter's  existence. 

"Johnny,"  begged  Philip,  "get  Miss  Diane 
some  chicken  implements,  will  you,  old  man? 
And  lend  me  some  salt.  You  see,"  he  added 
easily  to  Diane,  "Ras  and  I  are  personally  re 
sponsible  for  an  individual  and  very  concentrated 
grub  equipment.  It  saves  a  deal  of  fussing.  I 


146        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

carry  mine  in  my  pocket  and  Ras  carries  his  in 
his  hat,  but  he  wears  a  roomier  tile  than  I  do 
and  never  climbs  out  of  it  even  when  he  sleeps. 
Thank  you,  Johnny.  I'll  send  Ras  over  with 
your  supper.  But  if  it  seems  to  be  getting  late, 
look  him  up.  He  may  fall  asleep." 

After  repeated  indignant  refusals  which  Mr. 
Poynter  characteristically  splintered,  Diane,  in 
tensely  curious,  went  with  Mr.  Poynter  to  the 
hay-camp  for  supper. 

Now  although  the  somnolent  Ras  had  been 
shuffling  drowsily  about  a  fresh  fire  with  no 
apparent  aim,  he  presently  contrived  to  produce 
a  roasted  chicken,  fresh  cucumbers,  some  caviare 
and  rolls,  coffee  and  cheese  and  a  small  freezer 
of  ice  cream,  all  of  which  he  appeared  to  take 
at  intervals  from  under  the  seat  of  the  hay-cart. 

"Ice  cream  and  caviare!"  exclaimed  the  girl 
aghast.  "  That's  treason." 

"  I've  my  own  notions  of  camping,"  admitted 
Philip,  "  and  really  our  way  is  exceedingly  simple 
and  comfortable.  Ras  loads  up  the  seat  pantry 
at  the  nearest  village  and  then  we  cast  off  all 
unnecessary  ballast  every  morning.  Of  course  we 
couldn't  very  well  camp  twice  in  the  same  place 
— we  decorate  so  heavily  —  but  that's  a  negligible 
factor.  Oh,  yes,"  added  Philip  smiling,  "we've 
blazed  our  trail  with  buns  and  cheese  for  miles 
back.  Ras  thinks  whole  processions  of  birds 


Nomads  147 

and  dogs  and  tramps  and  chickens  are  already 
following  us.  If  it's  true,  we'll  most  likely  eat 
some  of  'em." 

"Where,"  demanded  Diane  hopelessly,  "did 
you  get  this  ridiculous  outfit?" 

"Well,"  explained  Philip  comfortably,  "Ras 
was  drowsing  by  Sherrill's  on  a  load  of  hay  and 
I  bought  the  cart  and  the  hay  and  the  horses  and 
Ras  at  a  bargain  and  set  out.  Ras  is  a  free  lance 
without  an  encumbrance  on  earth  and  I  can't 
imagine  a  more  comfortable  manner  of  getting 
about  than  stretched  out  full  length  on  a  load  of 
hay.  You  can  always  sleep  when  you  feel  like  it. 
And  every  morning  we  peel  the  bed  —  that  is, 
we  dispense  with  a  layer  of  mattress  and  presto! 
I  have  a  fresh  bed  until  the  hay's  gone.  We 
bought  a  new  load  this  morning." 

Swept  by  an  irresistible  spasm  of  laughter, 
Diane  stared  wildly  about  the  hay-camp. 

"And  Ras?"  she  begged  faintly. 

"Well,"  said  Philip  slowly,  "Ras  is  pecu 
liarly  gifted.  He  can  sleep  anywhere.  Some 
times  he  sleeps  stretched  out  on  the  padded  seat 
of  the  wagon,  and  sometimes  he  sleeps  under  it 
—  the  wagon  I  mean;  not  in  the  pantry.  And 
then  of  course  he  sleeps  all  day  while  he's  driv 
ing  and  once  or  twice  I've  found  him  in  a  tree. 
I  don't  like  him  to  do  that,"  he  added  with  gravity, 


148        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  for  he's  so  full  of  hay  I'm  afraid  the  birds  will 
begin  to  make  nests  in  his  ears  and  pockets." 

"Mistah  Poynteh,"  reflected  Ras,  scratching 
his  head  through  his  hat,  "  is  a  lunatict.  He  gits 
notions.  I  cain't  nohow  understan'  him  but  s'long 
as  he  don'  get  ructious  I'se  gwine  drive  dat  hay- 
cart  to  de  Norf  Pole  if  he  say  de  word.  I  hain't 
never  had  a  real  chanst  to  make  my  fortune 
afore." 

"And  what,"  begged  Diane  presently,  "do 
you  do  when  it  rains?" 

Mr.  Poynter  agreed  that  that  had  been  a 
problem. 

"But  with  our  accustomed  ingenuity,"  he 
added  modestly,  "  we  have  solved  it.  Back  there 
in  a  village  we  induced  a  blacksmith  with  brains 
and  brawn  to  fit  a  tall  iron  frame  around  the 
wagon  and  if  the  sun's  too  hot,  or  it  showers,  we 
shed  some  more  hay  and  drape  a  tarpaulin  or  so 
over  the  frame.  It's  an  excellent  arrangement. 
We  can  have  side  curtains  or  not  just  as  we 
choose.  In  certain  wet  circumstances,  of  course, 
we'll  most  likely  take  to  barns  and  inns  and  wood- 
houses  and  corncribs  and  pick  up  the  trail  in  the 
morning.  You  can't  imagine,"  he  added,  "how 
ready  pedestrians  are  to  tell  us  which  way  the 
green  moving  van  went." 

Whereupon  the  nomad  of  the  hay-camp  and 
his  ruffled  guest  crossed  swords  again  over  a  pot 


Nomads  149 

of  coffee,  with  inglorious  defeat  for  Diane, 
who  departed  for  her  own  camp  in  a  blaze  of 
indignation. 

"  I'll  ignore  him!"  she  decided  in  the  morning 
as  the  green  van  took  to  the  road  again.  "  It's 
the  only  way.  And  after  a  while  he'll  most  likely 
get  tired  and  disgruntled  and  go  home.  He's 
subject  to  huffs  anyway.  It's  utterly  useless  to 
talk  to  him.  He  thrives  on  opposition." 

Looking  furtively  back,  she  watched  Mr. 
Poynter  break  camp.  It  was  very  simple.  Ras, 
yawning  prodigiously,  heaved  a  variety  of  unnec 
essary  provisions  overboard  from  the  seat  pantry, 
abandoned  the  ice-cream  freezer  to  a  desolate  fate 
by  the  ashes  of  the  camp  fire  and  peeled  the  hay- 
bed.  Philip  slipped  a  small  tin  plate,  a  collapsible 
tin  cup,  a  wooden  knife,  fork  and  spoon  into  his 
pocket.  Ras  put  his  in  his  hat,  which  immediately 
took  on  a  somewhat  bloated  appearance.  Having 
climbed  languidly  to  the  reins,  the  ridiculous 
negro  appeared  to  fall  asleep  immediately.  Mr. 
Poynter,  looking  decidedly  trim  and  smiling, 
summoned  Dick  Whittington,  climbed  aboard 
and,  whistling,  disappeared  from  view  with  un 
common  grace  and  good  humor.  The  hay- wagon 
rumbled  off. 

Diane  bit  her  lips  convulsively  and  looked  at 
Johnny.  Simultaneously  they  broke  into  an  im 
moderate  fit  of  laughter. 


150        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"Very  well,"  decided  the  girl  indignantly  a 
little  later,  "if  I  can't  do  anything  else,  I  can 
lose  him ! " 

But  even  this  was  easier  of  utterance  than  ac 
complishment.  Diane  was  soon  to  learn  that  if 
the  distance  between  them  grew  too  great,  Mr. 
Poynter  promptly  unloaded  all  but  a  scant  layer 
of  hay,  took  the  reins  himself,  and  thundered 
with  expedition  up  the  trail  in  quest  of  her,  with 
Dick  Whittington  barking  furiously.  It  was 
much  too  spectacular  a  performance  for  a  daily 
diet. 

Diane  presently  ordered  her  going  and  coming 
as  if  the  persistent  hay-gypsy  on  the  road  behind 
her  did  not  exist,  but  every  night  she  caught  the 
cheerful  glimmer  of  his  camp  fire  through  the 
trees,  and  frowned. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  NOMADIC  MINSTBEL 

STRIKING  west  into  New  York  State, 
Diane  had  come  into  Orange  County,  whence 
she  wound  slowly  down  into  northern  Jersey, 
through  the  Poconos.  For  days  now  the  dusty 
wanderers  had  followed  the  silver  flash  of  the 
Delaware,  coming  at  length  from  a  rugged, 
cooler  country  of  mountain  and  lake  into  a  sunny 
valley  cleft  by  the  singing  river.  It  was  a  goodly 
land  of  peaceful  villages  tucked  away  mid  age- 
old  trees,  of  garrulous,  kindly  folks  and  covered 
bridges,  of  long,  lazy  canals  with  grassy  banks 
banding  each  shore  of  the  rippling  river,  of  tow- 
paths  padded  by  the  feet  of  bargemen  and  bell- 
hung  mules  and  lock-tenders. 

At  sunset  one  night  Diane  paid  her  toll  at  a 
Lilliputian  house  built  like  an  architectural  bar 
nacle  on  to  the  end  of  a  covered  bridge,  and 
with  a  rumble  of  boards  wound  slowly  through 
the  dusty,  twilight  tunnel  into  Pennsylvania.  A 
little  later  a  drowsy  negro  passed  through  with 
a  load  of  hay,  a  barking  dog  and  a  mysterious 
voice,  with  a  lazy  drawl,  which  directed  the  pay 
ment  of  the  toll  from  among  the  hay.  Still  later 
a  musical  nomad  driving  an  angular  horse  /rom 

151 


152        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

the  seat  of  a  ramshackle  cart,  accoutered,  among 
other  orchestral  devices,  with  clashing  cymbals,  a 
drum  and  a  handle  which  upon  being  turned  a 
trifle  by  the  curious  tollgate  keeper  aroused  a 
fearful  musical  commotion  in  the  cart. 

From  her  camp  on  a  wooded  spot  by  the  river, 
Diane  presently  watched  the  hay-camp  anchor 
with  maddening  ease  for  the  night.  Ras  built  a 
fire,  unhitched  the  horses,  produced  a  variety  of 
things  from  the  seat  of  the  pantry  and  took  his 
table  equipment  from  his  hat.  Philip  smoked, 
removed  an  occasional  wisp  of  hay  from  his  hair 
and  shied  friendly  pebbles  at  Richard  Whitting- 
ton. 

Diane  was  busy  making  coffee  when  the  third 
nomad  appeared  with  his  music  machine,  and, 
halting  near  her,  alighted  and  fell  stiffly  to  turn 
ing  the  eventful  crank. 

Instantly  two  terrible  drumsticks  descended 
and  with  globular  extremities  thumped,  by  no 
visible  agency,  upon  the  drum.  The  cymbals 
clashed — and  a  long  music  record  began  to  un 
fold  in  segments  like  a  papier-mdch6  snake. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Diane  fervently,  "I  do 
wish  he'd  stop!  For  all  we've  seen  him  so  often 
he's  never  bothered  us  like  this  before." 

The  unfortunate  and  frequently  flagellated 
"  Glowworm,"  however,  continued  to  glow  fear 
fully,  impelled  to  eruptive  scintillation  by  the 


A  Nomadic  Minstrel  153 

crank,  and  the  vocal  lady  "walked  with  Billy," 
and  presently  the  minstrel  came  through  the  trees 
with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  his  dark  eyes  very 
humble  and  deferential. 

Now  as  Diane  nodded  pleasantly  and  smiled 
and  held  forth  a  coin,  the  wandering  minstrel 
suddenly  swayed,  clapped  his  hand  to  his  fore 
head  with  a  choking  groan  and  pitched  forward 
senseless  upon  the  ground  at  her  feet.  Diane 
jumped. 

"Johnny!"  she  exclaimed  in  keen  alarm, 
"we've  another  invalid.  Turn  him  over!"  But 
it  was  not  Johnny  who  performed  this  service  for 
the  unfortunate  minstrel.  It  was  Mr.  Poynter. 

"Hum!"  said  Philip  dryly.  "That's  most 
likely  retribution.  A  man  can't  unwind  all  that 
hullabaloo  without  feeling  the  strain.  Water, 
Johnny,  and  if  you  have  some  smelling  salts 
handy,  bring  'em  along." 

After  one  or  two  vigorous  attentions  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Poynter,  the  nomad  of  the  music 
machine  opened  his  eyes  and  stared  blankly 
about  him.  That  he  was  not  yet  quite  himself, 
however,  was  readily  apparent,  for  meeting  Mr. 
Poynter's  unsmiling  glance,  he  grew  very  white 
and  faint  and  begged  for  water. 

Philip  supplied  it  without  a  word.  After  an 
interval  of  unsympathetic  silence,  during  which 
the  minstrel's  eyes  roved  uncertainly  about  the 


154        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

camp  and  returned  each  time  to  Philip's  face  in 
a  fascinated  stare,  he  feebly  strove  to  rise  but 
fell  back  groaning. 

"  If —if  I  might  stay  here  for  but  the  night," 
he  begged  pathetically,  his  accent  slightly 
foreign. 

"  That's  impossible ! "  said  Philip  curtly.  "  I'll 
help  you  to  your  rumpus  machine  and  back  there 
in  the  village  you  will  find  an  inn.  My  man  will 
go  with  you." 

"  Philip ! "  exclaimed  Diane  with  spirit.  "  The 
man  is  ill." 

"  I'm  not  denying  it,"  averred  Philip  stub 
bornly.  "  Nor  is  there  any  denying  the  existence 
of  the  inn." 

"  How  can  you  be  so  heartless  1 " 

"  One  may  also  be  prudent." 

"  He'll  stay  here  of  course  if  he  wishes.  The 
inn  is  a  mile  back." 

"Diane!" 

"Is  he  the  first?"  flashed  Diane  impetuously. 

Philip  reddened  but  his  eyes  were  sombre.  The 
knife  and  the  bullet  had  engendered  a  certain 
cynicism. 

"As  you  will!"  said  he.  And  consigning  to 
Johnny  the  care  of  the  invalid,  who  watched  him 
depart  with  furtive  relief,  Philip  strode  off 
through  the  woods.  Hospitality,  reflected  Philip 


A  Nomadic  Minstrel  155 

unquietly,  was  all  right  in  its  place,  but  Diane 
was  an  extremist.  After  supper,  however — for 
Philip  was  inherently  kind  hearted  and  sympa 
thetic —  he  dispatched  Has  to  unhitch  the  min 
strel's  snorting  steed  and  remove  the  eccentric 
music  machine  from  the  highway.  Johnny  had 
already  accomplished  both. 

Smoking,  Philip  stared  at  the  firelit  hollow 
where  his  lady's  fire-tinted  tents  glimmered  spec 
trally  through  the  trees.  He  was  relieved  to  see 
that  the  camp's  unbidden  guest  lay  comfortably 
upon  his  own  blankets  by  the  fire. 

Somehow  the  minstrel's  face,  clean-shaven, 
strikingly  brown  of  skin  and  unmistakably  for 
eign  beneath  the  thatch  of  dark  hair  sparsely 
veined  in  grey,  lingered  hauntingly  in  his 
memory. 

"Where  in  thunder  have  I  seen  him  before?" 
wondered  Philip  restlessly.  "  There's  something 
about  his  eyes  and  forehead  —  on  the  road  prob 
ably,  for  of  course  I've  passed  him  a  number  of 
times.  Still  —  Lord! "  added  Philip  with  a  burst 
of  impatience,  "what  a  salamander  I  am,  to  be 
sure!  Whittington,  old  top,  ever  since  I've 
known  our  gypsy  lady,  I've  done  nothing  but 
fuss." 

But,  nevertheless,  when  Diane's  camp  finally 
settled  into  quiet  for  the  night,  there  was  a  watch- 


156        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

ful  sentry  in  the  forest  who  did  not  retire  to  his 
bed  of  hay  until  Johnny  was  astir  at  daybreak. 
And  Philip  was  to  find  his  bearings  in  a  stag 
gering  flash  of  memory  and  know  no  peace  for 
many  a  day  to  come. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  MINSTRELSY 

"T  AM  glad  to  see  that  you  are  better,"  said 

JL   Diane  pleasantly. 

The  minstrel,  who  had  bathed  his  hands  and 
face  in  the  river  until  they  were  darkly  ruddy, 
bowed  with  singular  grace  and  ease.  That  he 
was  grave  and  courtly  of  manner  and  strikingly 
handsome  to  boot,  Diane  had  already  noticed  with 
a  flash  of  wonder. 

"  I  owe  you  much,"  said  he  simply.  "  My  life 
perhaps  - 

"  I  am  sure,"  protested  Diane,  "  that  you 
greatly  overrate  my  small  service." 

"Day  by  day,"  exclaimed  the  minstrel 
sombrely,  "  I  travel  the  summer  roads  in  quest  of 
health." 

Not  a  little  interested,  Diane  raised  frankly 
sympathetic  eyes  to  his  in  diffident  question. 

"The  music?"  said  the  minstrel  with  his  slow, 
grave  smile.  "Is  there  not  more  romance  and 
adventure  in  the  life  of  a  wandering  minstrel 
than  in  that  of  an  idle  seeker  after  health?  In 
the  open  one  finds  happiness,  health,  color  and 
life!" 

Diane  felt  a  sudden  tie  of  sympathy  link  her 

157 


158        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

subtly  to  this  mysterious  nomad  of  the  summer 
road.  Simply  and  naturally  she  spoke  of  her 
own  love  of  the  wild  things  that  filled  the  sylvan 
world  with  life  and  color. 

'You  look  much  then  at  the  wild  flowers!" 
he  exclaimed  delightedly.  "There  was  a  leaf 
back  there  on  a  mountain,  the  edge  of  white,  a 
white  blossom  in  the  heart  like  a  patch  of 
snow — 

"  Snow-on-the-mountain !  "  exclaimed  Diane. 
"  I've  looked  for  it  for  days." 

"  It  shall  be  my  ambition  to  bring  you  some," 
said  the  minstrel  gallantly.  "  I  shall  not  forget." 

Diane  glanced  furtively  at  the  picturesque 
attire  which  her  nomadic  guest  wore  with  a  cer 
tain  dashing  grace,  and  marveled  afresh.  It  was 
of  ragged  corduroy  with  a  brightly  colored  hand 
kerchief  about  the  throat  which  foiled  his  vivid 
skin  artistically.  Indeed  there  was  more  of 
sophistication  in  the  careful  blending  of  colors 
than  even  the  normal  seeker  after  health  might 
deem  expedient  for  his  purpose. 

"It  is  to  few — to  none  indeed  save  you  that 
I  have  confided  the  secret  of  my  minstrelsy,"  he 
said  deferentially  a  little  later.  "Illness,  love 
of  adventure,  a  longing  to  brush  elbows  with  the 
world,  a  hunger  for  the  woodland  —  in  the  eyes 
of  unromantic  men  these  things  are  weaknesses. 
You  and  I  know  differently,  but  nevertheless 
it  is  best  that  I  seem  but  a  poor  vagrant  grinding 


The  Romance  of  Minstrelsy     159 

forth  a  hapless  tune  for  the  coppers  by  the 
wayside." 

The  minstrel  gazed  idly  at  the  hay-camp. 

"One  does  not  quite  understand,"  he  sug 
gested  raising  handsome  eyebrows  in  subtle  dis 
approval;  "the  negro,  the  hay — the  curious 
camp  ? " 

Diane  recalled  Philip's  unfeeling  attitude  of 
the  night  before. 

"A  happy-go-lucky  young  man  with  a  taste 
for  hay,"  she  said.  "  I  know  little  of  him." 

"One  treasures  one's  confidence  from  the 
unsympathetic,"  ventured  the  minstrel.  "Now 
the  young  man  of  the  hay,  I  take  it,  is  intensely 
practical  and  let  us  say — unromantic.  Lest  he 
laugh  and  scoff — "  he  shrugged  and  glanced 
furtively  at  the  girl's  face.  It  was  brightly 
flushed  and  very  lovely.  The  velvet  dusk  of 
Diane's  eyes  was  sparkling  with  the  zest  of  wood 
land  adventure.  To  repose  a  confidence  in  one  so 
spirited  and  beautiful  was  fascinating  sport — 
and  safe. 

Now  the  minstrel  found  as  the  morning  waned 
that  he  was  not  so  strong  as  he  had  fancied. 
Wherefore  he  lay  humbly  by  the  fire  and  talked 
of  his  fortunes  by  the  roadside.  Bits  of  philos 
ophy,  of  sparkling  jest,  of  vivid  description,  to 
these  Diane  listened  with  parted  lips  and  eyes 
alive  with  wholesome  interest  as  her  guest  con- 


160        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

trived  to  veil  himself  in  a  silken  web  of  romance 
and  mystery. 

It  was  sunset  before  the  girl  felt  uncomfort 
ably  that  he  ought  to  go.  A  little  later,  on  her 
way  to  the  van,  she  found  a  volume  of  Herodotus 
in  the  original  Greek  which  with  a  becoming  air 
of  guilt  the  minstrel  owned  that  he  had  dropped. 

"Ah,  Herodotus!"  he  murmured,  smiling. 
"After  all,  was  he  not  the  wandering,  romantic 
father  of  all  of  us  who  are  nomads! " 

"  I  wonder,"  said  a  lazy  voice  among  the  trees, 
"  I  wonder  now  if  old  Herodotus  ever  heard  of 
a  hay-camp." 

Removing  a  wisp  of  hay  from  his  shoe  with  a 
certain  matter-of-fact  grace  characteristic  of 
him,  Mr.  Poynter,  who  had  been  invisible  all  day, 
arrived  in  the  camp  of  the  enemy.  Diane  saw 
with  a  fretful  flash  of  wonder  that  he  was  immac 
ulate  as  usual.  She  saw  too  that  the  minstrel  was 
annoyed  and  that  he  dropped  the  volume  of  He 
rodotus  into  his  pocket  with  a  flush  and  a  frown. 

"  I  trust,"  said  Philip  politely,  "  that  you  are 
better?" 

Save  for  a  slight  dizziness,  the  minstrel  said,  he 
was. 

"  And  yet,"  urged  Philip  feelingly,  "  I'm  sure 
you'll  not  take  to  the  road  to-night,  feeling  wob 
bly.  The  inn  back  there  in  the  village  is  im 
mensely  attractive.  And  a  bed  is  the  place  for 
a  sick  man." 


The  Romance  of  Minstrelsy     161 

"He  will  remain  where  he  is."  flashed  Diane 
perversely,  "  until  he  feels  quite  able  to  go  on." 

"Will  you?"  asked  Philip  pointedly. 

The  minstrel  rose  weakly  and  glanced  at 
Diane  with  profound  gratitude. 

"After  all,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "he  is  doubt 
less  right.  Ill  or  not  I  must  go  on." 

"An  excellent  notion!"  approved  Philip  cor 
dially.  "  I'll  go  with  you." 

Now  whether  or  not  the  hurry  and  excitement 
of  rising  in  these  somewhat  frictional  circum 
stances  brought  on  a  recurrence  of  the  nomad's 
singular  disease,  Diane  did  not  know,  but  cer 
tainly  he  staggered  and  fell  back,  faint  and 
moaning  by  the  fire,  thereby  arousing  an  immedi 
ate  commotion. 

Philip  grimly  took  his  pulse  and  met  Diane's 
sympathetic  glance  with  one  of  honest  indigna 
tion. 

"  Diane,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  he  is  trick 
ing  you  into  sympathy  merely  for  the  comfort  of 
your  camp.  Twice  now  his  fainting  has  been  at 
tended  by  an  absolutely  normal  pulse.  Let  Has 
and  Johnny  carry  him  back  to  his  rumpus  ma 
chine  and  I'll  drive  him  to  the  inn." 

'You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort  I"  exclaimed 
the  girl  with  flaming  color.  "Why  are  you  so 
suspicious?" 

Philip  sighed. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

AT  THE  GRAY  OF  DAWN 

IT  WAS  very  quiet  in  the  wood  by  the  river. 
A  late  moon  swung  its  golden  censer  above 
the  water  by  invisible  chains,  marking  checkered 
aisles  of  light  in  the  silent  wood,  burnishing  elfin 
rosaries  of  dew,  touching  with  cool,  white  fingers 
of  benediction  the  leaf -cowled  heads  of  stately 
trees.  Like  lines  of  solemn  smoke  they  stood 
listening  raptly  to  the  deep,  full  chant  of  the 
moving  river.  The  sylvan  mass  of  the  night  was 
a  thing  of  infinite  peace  and  mystery,  of  silence 
and  solemnity. 

Into  the  hush  of  the  moonlit  night  came  pres 
ently  a  jarring  note,  the  infernal  racket  of  a  mo 
torcycle.  Philip,  a  lone  sentry  by  the  camp  of 
his  lady,  stirred  and  frowned.  The  clatter  ceased. 
Once  again  the  lap  of  the  restless  river  and  the 
rustle  of  trees  were  the  only  sounds  in  the  silent 
wood.  Philip  glanced  at  the  muffled  figure  of 
the  minstrel  asleep  on  the  ground  by  the  dead 
embers  of  the  camp  fire,  and  leaning  carelessly 
upon  his  elbow,  fell  again  into  the  train  of 
thought  disturbed  by  the  clatter. 

"Herodotus!"  said  Philip.  "Hum!"  And 
roused  to  instant  alertness  by  the  crackle  of  a 

162 


At  the  Gray  of  Dawn          163 

twig  in  the  forest,  he  glanced  sharply  roadwards 
where  the  trees  thinned. 

There  was  something  moving  stealthily  along 
in  the  shadows.  With  narrowed  eyes  the  sentry 
noiselessly  flattened  himself  upon  the  ground 
and  fell  to  watching. 

A  stealthy  crackle — and  silence.  A  moving 
shadow — a  halt! 

A  patch  of  moonlight  lay  ahead.  For  an  in 
terval  which  to  Philip  seemed  unending,  there 
was  no  sound  or  movement,  then  a  figure  glided 
swiftly  through  the  patch  of  moonlight  and  ap 
proached  the  camp.  It  was  a  man  in  the  garb  of 
a  motorcyclist. 

Noiselessly  Philip  shifted  his  position.  The 
cyclist  crept  to  the  shelter  of  a  tree  and  halted. 

The  moon  now  hung  above  the  wood.  Its  light, 
showering  softly  through  the  trees  as  the  night 
wind  swayed  the  branches,  fell  presently  upon 
the  camp  and  the  face  of  the  cyclist. 

It  was  Themar. 

Now  as  Philip  watched,  Themar  crouched  sud 
denly  and  fell  to  staring  at  the  muffled  figure  by 
the  camp  fire.  For  an  interval  he  crouched  mo 
tionless;  then  with  infinite  caution  he  moved  to 
the  right.  A  branch  swept  his  cap  back  from  his 
forehead  and  Philip  saw  now  that  his  face  was 
white  and  staring. 

And  in  that  instant  as  he  glanced  at  the  horri- 


164        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

fied  face  of  the  Houdanian,  Philip  knew.  The 
stained  skin,  the  smooth-shaven  chin  and  lip  of 
the  minstrel  —  if  Themar  had  found  them  puz 
zling,  the  revealment  had  come  to  him,  as  it  had 
come  to  Philip,  in  a  flash  of  bewilderment. 

With  a  bound,  the  startled  American  was  on 
his  feet,  stealing  rapidly  toward  the  man  by  the 
tree.  To  the  spying,  the  mystery,  the  infernal 
trickery  and  masquerading  which  dogged  his 
lady's  trail,  Themar  held  the  key,  wherefore  — 

Cursing,  Philip  forged  ahead.  The  carpet  of 
dry  twigs  beneath  him  had  betrayed  his  approach 
and  Themar  was  running  wildly  through  the 
forest. 

On  and  on  they  went,  stumbling  and  flying 
through  the  moonlit  wood  to  the  towpath.  But 
Philip  was  much  the  better  runner  and  soon 
caught  the  fleeing  cyclist  by  the  collar  with  a  grip 
of  steel. 

"Poynter!"  panted  Themar,  staring. 

"  At  your  service ! "  Mr.  Poynter  assured  him 
and  politely  begged  instant  and  accurate  knowl 
edge  of  a  number  of  things,  of  a  knife  and  a  bul 
let,  of  Themar's  spying,  of  a  cuff,  of  the  man  by 
the  fire  who  read  Herodotus,  of  a  motorcyclist 
seeking  for  days  to  overtake  a  nomad. 

"I  —  I  dare  not  tell,"  faltered  Themar,  moist 
ening  his  lips.  "I  —  I  am  bound  by  an  oath  —  " 

"To  spy  and  steal  and  murder!" 


At  the  Gray  of  Dawn          165 

Themar  stared  sullenly  at  the  river,  gray  now 
with  the  coming  dawn.  His  dark  face  was  drawn 
and  haggard. 

And  again  Mr.  Poynter  shot  a  volley  of  ques 
tions  and  awaited  the  answers  with  dangerous 
quiet. 

Shaking,  Themar  refused  again  to  answer. 
With  even  more  quietness  and  courtesy  Philip 
obligingly  gave  him  a  final  opportunity  and  find 
ing  Themar  white  and  inexorable,  smiled. 

:'  Very  well,  then,'*  said  Mr.  Poynter  warmly, 
"  I'll  take  it  out  of  your  hide."  Which  he  pro 
ceeded  to  do  with  that  consummate  thoroughness 
which  characterized  his  every  action,  husbanding 
the  strength  of  his  long,  lean  arms  until  a  knife 
appeared  in  Themar's  hand.  Then  in  deadly 
silence  Mr.  Poynter  reduced  his  treacherous 
assailant  to  a  battered  hulk  upon  the  towpath. 

A  mule  bell  tinkled  in  the  quiet. 

Upstream  on  the  path  between  canal  and  river 
two  mules  appeared  with  a  man  slouching  heavily 
behind  them.  The  towline  led  to  a  grimy  scow 
which  loomed  out  of  the  misty  stillness  like  a 
heavier  drift  of  the  dawn  itself. 

"Hello!"  Philip  hailed  the  mule  driver. 

"  What's  wantin'  ? "  asked  the  man  and  halted. 

Philip  indicated  Themar  with  his  foot. 

"  Here  is  a  gentleman,"  he  explained,  "  whom 
I  discovered  lurking  about  my  camp  a  while  ago. 


166        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

He  showed  me  his  knife  and  I've  mussed  him  up 
a  bit." 

The  mule-driver  bent  over  Themar  and  sharply 
scanned  the  dark,  foreign  face. 

"One  o'  them  damned  black-and-tans,  eh?" 
he  growled.  "They're  too  ready  with  their 
knives.  What  ye  goin'  to  do  with  him?" 

"  I'm  wondering,"  shrugged  Philip,  smoothing 
his  rumpled  hair  back  from  his  forehead  with  the 
palm  of  his  hand,  "  if  you'll  permit  me  to  pay  his 
passage  to  a  hospital,  the  farther  away,  the 
better." 

The  mule-driver  glanced  searchingly  at  Mr. 
Poynter's  face.  Apparently  satisfied,  he  cupped 
his  mouth  with  his  hands  and  called  "  Ho,  Jem!  " 

"Jem"  jerked  sharply  at  the  tiller  and  pres 
ently  the  scow  scraped  the  shore.  The  mule- 
driver  consigned  the  care  of  his  mules  to  Philip 
and  scrambled  down  the  grassy  bank  to  the  edge 
of  the  water. 

"Where  ye  want  him  took?"  demanded  Jem, 
scratching  a  bristling  shock  of  hair  which  glim 
mered  through  the  dawn  like  a  thicket  of  spikes. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Poynter  indifferently, 
"where  are  you  going?" 

Jem  named  a  town  many  miles  away.  The 
mule-driver  looked  hard  again  at  Philip. 

"  Gawd,  young  feller,"  he  admired,  "  you're  a 
cool  un  all  right!" 


At  the  Gray  of  Dawn          167 

"  Take  him  there,"  said  Philip  with  the  utmost 
composure.  "Deliver  him  somewhere  a  reason 
able  distance  off  for  repairs  and  I'll  pay  you  fifty 
dollars." 

"See  here,"  broke  in  Jem,  somewhat  staggered 
by  the  careless  manner  in  which  Mr.  Poynter 
handled  fortunes,  "  hain't  no  foul  play  about  this 
here,  eh?  Asher  says  he's  mussed  up  consider 
able." 

"Asher's  right,"  admitted  Mr.  Poynter 
modestly.  "I  did  the  best  I  could,  of  course. 
Come  up  and  look  him  over.  He's  decorated 
mournfully  with  fist  marks,  but  nothing  worse. 
There's  his  knife." 

After  a  somewhat  cautious  inspection,  Themar 
was  hoisted  aboard  the  scow  and  harnessed  dis 
creetly  with  ropes.  Jem  shared  his  companion's 
distrust  of  black-and-tans.  With  a  tinkle  of 
mule-bells  the  cortege  faded  away  into  the  gray 
of  dawn. 

Later,  Mr.  Poynter  discovered  an  abandoned 
motorcycle  by  the  roadside,  which  with  some  little 
malice  he  had  crated  at  the  nearest  town  and  dis 
patched  to  Baron  Tregar. 

Thereafter,  after  a  warning  talk  with  Johnny, 
Philip  slept  by  day  and  watched  by  night. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

SYLVAN  SUITORS 

SOUTHWARD  wound  the  green  and  white 
O  van;  southward  the  hay-camp  with  infre 
quent  scurries  to  inn  and  barn  for  shelter ;  south 
ward,  his  health  still  improving,  went  the  musical 
nomad,  unwinding  his  musical  hullabaloo  for  the 
torture  of  musical  crowds. 

Now  the  world  was  a-riot  with  the  life  and 
color  of  midsummer.  Sleepy  cows  browsed 
about  in  fields  dotted  with  orange  daisies,  horses 
switched  their  tails  against  the  cloudless  sky  on 
distant  hillsides,  sheep  freckled  the  sunny  pas 
tures,  and  here  and  there  beneath  an  apple  tree 
heavy  with  fruit,  lumbered  a  mother-sow  with  her 
litter  of  pigs.  Sun-bleached  dust  clouded  the 
highway  and  the  swaying  fields  of  corn  were  slim 
and  tall. 

The  shuttle  of  Fate  clicked  and  clicked  as  she 
wove  and  crossed  and  tangled  the  threads  of  these 
wandering,  sun-brown  nomads.  How  frequently 
the  path  of  the  music  machine  crossed  the  path  of 
the  van,  no  one  knew  so  well  perhaps  as  Philip, 
but  Philip  at  times  was  tantalizing  and  mysteri 
ous  and  only  evidenced  his  knowledge  in  peculiar 
and  singularly  aggravating  ways. 

168 


Sylvan  Suitors  169 

For  the  friendship  between  Diane  and  the 
handsome  minstrel  was  steadily  growing.  By 
what  subtle  hints,  by  what  ingenuous  bursts  of 
confidence,  by  what  bewildering  flashes  of  in 
herent  magnetism  he  contrived  to  cement  it,  who 
may  say  ?  But  surely  his  romantic  resources  like 
his  irresistible  charm  of  speech  and  manner,  were 
varied.  A  rare  flower,  an  original  and  highly 
commendable  bit  of  woodland  verse,  some  luxury 
of  fruit  or  camping  device,  in  a  hundred  delicate 
ways  he  contrived  to  make  the  girl  his  debtor, 
talking  much  in  his  grave  and  courtly  way  of 
the  gratitude  he  owed  her.  Adroitly  then  this 
romantic  minstrel  spun  his  shining,  varicolored 
web,  linking  them  together  as  sympathetic 
nomads  of  the  summer  road;  adroitly  too  he 
banned  Philip,  who  by  reason  of  a  growing  and 
mysterious  habit  of  sleeping  by  day  had  gained 
for  himself  a  blighting  reputation  of  callous 
indifference  to  the  charm  of  the  beautiful  rolling 
country  all  around  them. 

"  I'm  exceedingly  sorry,"  read  a  scroll  of  birch 
bark  which  Ras  drowsily  delivered  to  Diane  one 
sunset,  "  but  I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  invite  me  to 
supper.  Ras  bought  an  unhappy  can  of  some 
thing  or  other  behind  in  the  village  and  it 
exploded. 

"Philip." 


170        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  If  I  refuse,"  Diane  wrote  on  the  back, "  you'll 
come  anyway.  You  always  do.  Why  write? 
Will  you  contribute  enough  hay  for  a  cushion? 
Johnny's  making  a  new  one  for  Rex." 

It  was  one  of  the  vexing  problems  of  Diane's 
nomadic  life,  just  how  to  treat  Mr.  Philip  Poyn- 
ter.  It  was  increasingly  difficult  to  ignore  or 
quarrel  with  him  —  for  his  memory  was  too 
alarmingly  porous  to  cherish  a  grudge  or  resent 
ment.  When  a  man  has  had  a  bump  upon  his  only 
head,  held  Mr.  Poynter,  things  are  apt  to  slip 
away  from  him.  Wherefore  one  may  pardon  him 
if  after  repeated  commands  to  go  home,  and  cer 
tain  frost-bitten  truths  about  officious  young  men, 
he  somehow  forgot  and  reappeared  in  the  camp 
of  the  enemy  in  radiant  good  humor. 

Philip  presently  arrived  with  a  generous  layer 
of  hay  under  his  arm  and  a  flour  bag  of  tomatoes. 

"Hello,"  he  called  warmly.  "Isn't  the  sun 
set  bully!  It  even  woke  old  Has  up  and  he's 
blinking  and  grumbling  like  fury."  Mr.  Poynter 
fell  to  chatting  pleasantly,  meanwhile  removing 
from  his  clothing  certain  wisps  of  hay. 

'You're  always  getting  into  hay  or  getting 
out  of  it!"  accused  Diane. 

Philip  admitted  with  regret  that  this  might  be 
so  and  Diane  stared  hopelessly  at  his  immaculate 
linen.  Heaven  alone  knew  by  what  ingenuity 
Mr.  Poynter,  handicapped  by  the  peculiar  limita- 


Sylvan  Suitors  171 

tions  of  a  hay-camp,  contrived  to  manage  his 
wardrobe.  What  mysterious  toilet  paraphernalia 
lay  beneath  the  hay,  what  occasional  laundry 
chores  Ras  did  by  brook  and  river,  what  pur 
chases  Mr.  Poynter  made  in  every  village,  and 
finally  what  an  endless  trail  of  shirts  and  cuffs 
and  collars  lay  behind  him,  doomed,  like  the  cheese 
and  buns,  as  he  feelingly  put  it,  to  one-night 
stands,  only  Ras  and  Philip  knew;  but  certainly 
the  hay-nomad  combined  the  minimum  of  effort 
with  the  maximum  of  efficiency  to  the  marvel  of 
all  who  beheld  him.  Ras's  problem  was  infinitely 
simpler.  He  never  changed.  There  was  much 
of  the  original  load  of  hay,  Philip  said,  dispersed 
about  his  ears  and  pockets  and  fringing  the  back 
of  his  neck. 

"Where  did  you  get  tomatoes?"  inquired 
Diane  at  supper. 

"Well,"  said  Philip,  "I  hate  to  tell  you.  I 
strongly  suspect  Ras  of  spearing  'em  with  a  har 
poon  he  made.  Made  it  in  his  sleep,  too.  It's 
pretty  long  and  he  can  spear  whatever  he  wants 
from  the  wagon  seat.  Lord  help  the  rabbits!" 
He  lazily  sprinkled  salt  upon  a  large  tomato  and 
bit  into  it  with  relish.  "  But  why  should  I  worry? " 
he  commented  smiling.  :<  They're  mighty  good. 
Johnny,  old  top,  see  if  you  can  rustle  up  a  loaf 
of  bread  to  lend  me  for  breakfast,  will  you?  I'm 
willing  to  trade  three  cucumbers  for  it.  And  tell 


172        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Ras  when  you  take  his  supper  over  that  there's 
a  herring  under  the  seat  for  Dick  Whittington's 
supper.  Tell  me,"  he  added  humorously  to  Di 
ane,  "just  how  do  you  contrive  to  remember 
bread  and  salt?" 

"  I  don't,"  said  Diane,  smiling.  "  Johnny  does. 
Did  the  storm  get  you  last  night,  Philip  ? " 

"It  did  indeed.  It's  the  third  load  of  hay 
we've  had  this  week.  We're  perpetually  furling 
up  the  tarpaulin  or  unfurling  it  or  skinning  the 
mattress  or  watching  the  clouds.  I'm  a  wreck." 

"  Where  have  you  been  all  day  ? " 

"Haying!"  said  Philip  promptly. 

"Sleeping!"  corrected  Diane  with  a  critical 
sniff. 

Mr.  Poynter  fancied  they  were  synonyms. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  added  pointedly,  "  I  imag 
ine  I'd  find  ever  so  much  more  romance  and  ad 
venture  about  it  if  I  only  had  some  interesting 
ailment  and  a  music-mill.  I  did  think  I  had  a 
bully  cough,  but  it  was  only  a  wisp  of  hay  in  my 
throat." 

Philip's  powers  of  intuition  were  most  fearful. 
Diane  colored. 

"Just  what  do  you  mean?"  she  inquired  cau 
tiously. 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  replied  Philip  with  a  charm 
ing  smile.  "I  never  do.  Why  mean  anything 
when  words  come  so  easy  without?  It  has  oc- 


Sylvan  Suitors  173 

curred  to  me,"  he  added  innocently,  "that  it 
takes  an  uncommonly  thick-skinned  and  unro- 
mantic  dub  to  tour  about  covered  with  hay. 
Fancy  sleeping  through  this  wild  and  beautiful 
country  when  I  might  be  grinding  up  lost  chords 
to  annoy  the  populace." 

Diane  had  heard  something  of  this  sort  before 
from  quite  another  source.  Acutely  uncomfort 
able,  she  changed  the  subject.  There  was  some 
thing  uncanny  in  Philip's  perfect  comprehension 
of  the  minstrel's  tactics. 

A  little  later  Mr.  Poynter  produced  a  green 
bug  mounted  eccentrically  upon  a  bit  of  birch 
bark. 

"I  found  a  bug,"  he  said  guilelessly.  "He 
was  a  very  nice  little  bug.  I  thought  you'd  like 
him." 

Diane  frowned.  For  every  flower  the  minstrel 
brought,  Philip  contrived  a  ridiculous  parallel. 

"  How  many  times,"  she  begged  hopelessly, 
"  must  I  tell  you  that  I  am  not  collecting  ridicu 
lous  bugs?" 

Philip  raised  expressive  eyebrows. 

"Dear  me!"  said  he  in  hurt  surprise.  "You 
do  surprise  me.  Why,  he's  the  greenest  bug  I 
ever  saw  and  he  matches  the  van.  He's  a  nomad 
with  the  wild  romance  of  the  woodland  bounding 
through  him.  I  did  think  I'd  score  heavily  with 
him." 


174        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Diane  discreetly  ignored  the  inference.  Whis 
tling  happily,  Mr.  Poynter  poured  the  coffee  and 
leaned  back  against  a  tree  trunk.  Watching  him 
one  might  have  read  in  his  fine  eyes  a  keener  ap 
preciation  of  nomadic  life  —  and  nomads  —  than 
he  ever  expressed. 

There  was  idyllic  peace  and  quiet  in  this  grove 
of  ancient  oaks  shot  with  the  ruddy  color  of  the 
sunset.  Off  in  the  heavier  aisles  of  golden  gloom 
already  there  were  slightly  bluish  shadows  of  the 
coming  twilight.  Hungry  robins  piped  excitedly, 
woodpeckers  bored  for  worms  and  flaming  orioles 
flashed  by  on  golden  wings.  Black  against  the 
sky  the  crows  were  sailing  swiftly  toward  the 
woodland. 

With  the  twilight  and  a  young  moon  Philip 
produced  his  wild  wood  pipe  and  fell  to  smoking 
with  a  sigh  of  comfort. 

"Philip!"  said  Diane  suddenly. 

"Mademoiselle!"  said  Philip,  suspiciously 
grave  and  courtly  of  manner.  The  girl  glanced 
at  him  sharply. 

"  It  annoys  me  exceedingly,"  she  went  on 
finally,  finding  his  laughing  glance  much  too 
bland  and  friendly  to  harbor  guile,  "  to  have  you 
trailing  after  me  in  a  hay-wagon." 

"  I'll  buy  me  a  rumpus  machine,"  said  Philip. 

"  It  would  bother  me  to  have  you  trailing  after 


Sylvan  Suitors  175 

me  so  persistently  in  any  guise!"  flashed  the  girl 
indignantly. 

"It  must  perforce  continue  to  bother  you!" 
regretted  Philip.  "  Besides,"  he  added  absently, 
"  I'm  really  the  Duke  of  Connecticut  in  disguise, 
touring  about  for  my  health,  and  the  therapeutic 
value  of  hay  is  enormous." 

Now  why  Diane's  cheeks  should  blaze  so  hotly 
at  this  aristocratic  claim  of  Mr.  Poynter's,  who 
may  say?  But  certainly  she  glanced  with  swift 
suspicion  at  her  tranquil  guest,  who  met  her  eyes 
with  supreme  good  humor,  laughed  and  fell  to 
whistling  softly  to  himself.  Despite  a  certain 
significant  silence  in  the  camp  of  his  lady,  Mr. 
Poynter  smoked  most  comfortably,  puffing  forth 
ingenious  smoke-rings  which  he  lazily  sought  to 
string  upon  his  pipestem  and  busily  engaging 
himself  in  a  variety  of  other  conspicuously  peace 
ful  occupations.  All  in  all,  there  was  something 
so  tranquil  and  soothing  in  the  very  sight  of  him 
that  Diane  unbent  in  spite  of  herself. 

"If  you'd  only  join  a  peace  tribunal  as  dele- 
gat  e-at-large,"  she  said,  "  you'd  eliminate  war.  I 
meant  to  freeze  you  into  going  home.  I  do  wish 
I  could  stay  indignant ! " 

"Don't,"  begged  Philip  humbly.  "I'm  so 
much  happier  when  you're  not. 

"  There  is  another  way  of  managing  me,"  he 


176        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

said  hopefully  a  little  later.  "  I  meant  to  mention 
it  before—" 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  implored  Diane. 

"Marry  me!" 

"Philip!"  exclaimed  the  girl  with  delicate  dis 
dain,  "the  moon  is  on  your  head  —  " 

'  Yes,"  admitted  Philip,  "  it  is.  It  does  get  me. 
No  denying  it.  Doesn't  it  ever  get  you? " 

"  No,"  said  Diane.  "  Besides,  I  never  bumped 
my  brain  —  " 

"That  could  be  remedied,"  hinted  Philip,  "if 
you  think  it  would  alter  matters  — 

Diane  was  quite  sure  it  would  not  and  later 
Philip  departed  for  the  hay-camp  in  the  best  of 
spirits.  In  the  morning  Diane  found  a  con 
spicuous  placard  hung  upon  a  tree.  The  placard 
bore  a  bombastic  ode,  most  clever  in  its  trenchant 
satire,  entitled — "To  a  Wild  Mosquito  —  by 
One  who  Knows ! " 

Since  an  ill-fated  occasion  when  Mr.  Poynter 
had  found  a  neatly  indited  ode  to  a  wild  geranium 
written  in  a  flowing  foreign  hand,  his  literary 
output  had  been  prodigious.  Dirges,  odes,  son 
nets  and  elegies  frequently  appeared  in  spectacu 
lar  places  about  the  camp  and  as  Mr.  Poynter's 
highly  sympathetic  nature  led  him  to  eulogize 
the  lowlier  and  less  poetic  life  of  the  woodland, 
the  result  was  frequently  of  striking  originality. 

Convinced  that  Mr.  Poynter's  eyes  were  upon 


Sylvan  Suitors  177 

her  from  the  hay-camp,  Diane  read  the  ode  with 
absolute  gravity  and  consigned  it  to  the  fire. 

The  minstrel's  attitude  toward  the  hay-nomad 
might  be  one  of  subtle  undermining  and  shrug 
ging  ridicule,  but  surely  with  his  imperturbable 
gift  of  satire,  Mr.  Poynter  held  the  cards  1 

Still  another  morning  Diane  found  a  book  at 
the  edge  of  her  camp. 

"  I  am  dropping  this  accidentally  as  I  leave," 
read  the  fly  leaf  in  Philip's  scrawl.  "I  don't 
want  you  to  suspect  my  classic  tastes,  but  what 
can  I  do  if  you  find  the  book  1 " 

It  was  a  volume  of  Herodotus  in  the  original 
Greek! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

LETTERS 

BUCKWHEAT  was  cut,  harvest  brooded 
hazily  over  the  land  and  the  fields  were 
bright  with  goldenrod  when  Diane  turned 
sharply  across  Virginia  to  Kentucky. 

"It  is  already  autumn,"  she  wrote  to  Ann 
Sherrill.  "The  summer  has  flown  by  like  a 
bright-winged  bird.  For  days  now  the  forests 
have  been  splashed  with  red  and  gold.  The  or 
chards  are  heavy  with  harvest  apples,  the  tas 
sels  of  the  corn  are  dark  and  rusty,  and  the 
dooryards  of  the  country  houses  riot  gorgeously 
in  scarlet  sage  and  marigold,  asters  and  gladiolus. 
The  twilight  falls  more  swiftly  now  and  the 
nights  are  cooler  but  before  the  frost  sweeps 
across  the  land  I  shall  be  in  Georgia. 

"For  all  it  is  autumn  elsewhere,  here  in  this 
wonderful  blue  grass  land,  it  is  spring  again,  a 
second  spring.  The  autumn  sunlight  over  the 
woods  and  pastures  is  deeply,  richly  yellow. 
There  are  meadow  larks  and  off  somewhere  the 
tinkle  of  a  cow  bell.  Oh,  Ann,  how  good  it  is  to 
be  alive  I 

"  Ages  ago,  in  that  remote  and  barbarous  past 
when  I  lived  with  a  roof  above  my  head,  there 

178 


Letters  179 

were  times  when  every  pulse  of  my  body  cried 
and  begged  for  life  —  for  gypsy  life  and  gypsy 
wind  and  the  song  of  the  roaring  river!  Now, 
somehow,  I  feel  that  I  have  lived  indeed — so 
fully  that  a  wonderful  flood  tide  of  peace  and 
happiness  flows  strongly  in  my  veins.  I  am  brown 
and  happy.  Each  day  I  cook  and  tramp  and 
fish  and  swim  and  sleep — how  I  sleep  with  the 
leaves  rustling  a  lullaby  of  infinite  peace  above 
me!  Would  you  believe  that  I  lived  for  two 
days  and  nights  in  a  mountain  cave?  I  did  in 
deed,  but  Johnny  was  greatly  troubled.  Aunt 
Agatha  stuffed  his  head  with  commands. 

"The  South  thrills  and  calls.  After  all, 
though  I  was  born  in  the  Adirondacks,  I  am 
Southern,  every  inch  of  me.  The  Westfalls  have 
been  Florida  folk  since  the  beginning  of  time. 

"There  is  an  interesting  nomad  in  a  pictur 
esque  suit  of  corduroy  who  crosses  my  path  from 
time  to  time  with  an  eccentric  music-machine. 
Sometimes  I  see  him  gravely  organ-grinding  for 
a  crowd  of  youngsters,  sometimes  —  with  an  in 
nate  courtliness  characteristic  of  him — for  a 
white-haired  couple  by  a  garden  gate.  He  is 
wandering  about  in  search  of  health.  Oddly,  his 
way  lies,  too,  through  Kentucky  and  Tennessee, 
to  Florida.  He — and  Ann,  dear,  this  confidence 
of  his  I  must  beg  you  to  respect,  as  I  know  you 
will  —  is  a  Hungarian  nobleman,  picturesquely 


180        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

disguised  because  of  some  political  quarrel  with 
his  country.  He  writes  excellent  verse  in  French 
and  Latin,  is  a  clever  linguist,  and  has  a  marvel 
ous  fund  of  knowledge  about  birds  and  flowers. 
Altogether  he  is  a  cultured,  courtly,  handsome 
man  whom  I  have  found  vastly  entertaining. 
Romantic,  isn't  it? 

"A  letter  to  Eadsville,  Kentucky,  will  reach 
me  if  you  write  as  soon  as  this  reaches  you. 

"  Ever  yours, 

"Diane." 

Let  him  who  is  more  versed  in  the  science  of  a 
nomad's  mind  than  I,  say  why  there  was  no  men 
tion  of  the  hay-camp ! 

Ann's  answer  came  in  course  of  time  to  Eads 
ville.  As  Ann  talked  in  sprightly  italics,  so  was 
her  letter  made  striking  and  emphatic  by  num 
berless  underlinings. 

"  How  very  romantic ! "  ran  a  part  of  it.  "  I 
am  mad  about  your  nobleman !  Isn't  it  wonder 
ful  to  have  such  unique  and  thrilling  adventures  ? 
I  suppose  you  hung  things  up  on  the  walls  of  the 
cave  and  built  a  delightfully  smoky  fire  and  that 
the  Hungarian  —  bless  his  heart!  —  trimmed  his 
corduroy  suit  with  an  ancestral  stiletto,  and  paid 
his  courtly  respects  to  the  beautiful  gypsy  her 
mit  and  fell  desperately  in  love  with  her,  as  well 
he  might.  I  would  myself! 

"Diane,  I  simply  must  see  him!     I'm  dying 


Letters  181 

for  a  new  sensation.  Ever  since  Baron  Tregar's 
car  was  stolen  from  the  farm  garage  and  his 
handsome  secretary  mysteriously  disappeared 
(by  the  way,  it's  Philip  Poynter — Carl  knows 
him — do  you?)  and  then  reappeared  with  a  most 
unsatisfactory  explanation  which  didn't  in  the 
least  explain  where  he  had  been — only  to  up  and 
disappear  again  as  strangely  as  before,  and  the 
very  next  morning — life  has  been  terribly  mo 
notonous.  And  mother  had  a  rustic  seizure  and 
made  us  stay  at  the  farm  all  summer.  Imagine! 
Dick's  aeroplaned  the  tops  off  aH  the  trees ! 

"Do  beg  your  Hungarian  to  join  us  at  Palm 
Beach  in  January.  It  would  be  most  interesting 
and  novel  and  I'll  swear  on  the  ancestral  stiletto 
to  preserve  his  incognito!  You  remember  you 
solemnly  promised  to  come  to  me  in  January,  no 
matter  where  you  were !  My  enthusiasm  grows 
as  I  write  —  it  always  does.  I'm  planning  a  fete 
de  nuit — masked  of  course.  Do  please  induce 
the  romantic  musician  to  attend.  I  must  have 
him.  I'm  sure  he'll  enjoy  a  few  days  of  conven 
tional  respectability  and  so  will  you.  I'll  lend 
you  as  many  gowns  as  you  need,  you  dear, 
delightful  gypsy!" 

To  which  Diane's  answer  was  eminently  sat 
isfactory. 

"Last  night  as  Johnny  was  getting  supper," 


182        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

she  wrote,  "our  minstrel  appeared  with  a  great 
bunch  of  silver-rod  and  I  begged  him  to  stay  to 
supper.  He  was  greatly  gratified  and  when  later 
I  confessed  my  indiscreet  revelation  to  you  — 
and  your  invitation — he  accepted  it  instantly. 
He  will  be  honored  to  be  your  guest,  he  said,  pro 
vided  of  course  he  may  depend  upon  us  to  pre 
serve  his  incognito.  That  is  very  important.  Do 
you  know  it  is  astonishing  how  I  find  myself 
keyed  up  to  the  most  amazing  pitch  of  interest  in 
him  — he's  so  mysterious  and  romantic  and  mag 
netic. 

'  Your  constant  craving  for  new  and  original 
sensations  brings  back  a  lot  of  memories.  Will 
you  never  get  over  it? 

"  I  shall  probably  leave  the  van  with  Johnny 
at  Jacksonville  and  go  down  by  rail.  There  are 
certain  spectacular  complications  incident  to  an 
arrival  at  Palm  Beach  in  the  van  which  would  be 
very  distasteful,  to  say  the  least.  Besides,  I'd 
be  later  than  we  planned." 

For  most  likely,  reflected  Diane,  nibbling  in 
tently  at  the  end  of  her  pen,  most  likely  Palm 
Beach  had  never  seen  a  hay-camp  and  much 
Mr.  Poynter  would  care! 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  LONELY   CAMPEK 

THE  WEST  was  yellow.  High  on  the  moun 
tain  where  a  mad  little  waterfall  sprayed 
the  bushes  of  laurel  and  rhododendron  with  quick 
silver,  the  afterglow  of  the  sunset  on  the  tumbling 
water  made  a  streak  of  saffron.  The  wings  of  a 
homing  eagle  were  golden-black  against  the  sky. 
Over  there  above  the  cornfields  to  the  west  there 
was  a  cliff  and  a  black  and  bushy  ravine  over 
which  soared  a  buzzard  or  two.  Presently  when 
the  moon  rose  its  splendid  alchemy  would  turn 
the  black  to  glowing  silver. 

A  Kentucky  brook  chuckled  boisterously  by 
the  hay-camp,  tumbling  headlong  over  mossy 
logs  and  stones  and  a  tangled  lacery  of  drenched 
ferns. 

Philip  laid  aside  a  bow  and  arrow  upon  which 
he  had  been  busily  working  since  supper  and 
summoned  Dick  Whittington.  Beyond,  through 
oak  and  poplar,  glowed  the  camp  fire  of  his  lady. 

"Likely  we'll  tramp  about  a  bit,  Richard,  if 
you're  willing,"  said  he.  "  Somehow,  we're  in 
fernally  restless  to-night  and  just  why  our  lady 
has  seen  fit  to  pile  that  abominable  silver-rod  in 
such  a  place  of  honor  by  her  tent,  we  can't  for 

183 


184        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

the  life  of  us  see.  It's  nothing  like  so  pretty  as 
the  goldenrod.  By  and  by,  Whittington,"  Philip 
felt  for  his  pipe  and  filled  it,  "we'll  have  our 
wildwood  bow  and  arrows  done  and  we  fancy 
somehow  that  our  gypsy's  wonderful  black  eyes 
are  going  to  shine  a  bit  over  that.  Why?  Lord, 
Dick,  you  do  ask  foolish  questions !  Our  beauti 
ful  lady's  an  archer  and  a  capital  one  too,  says 
Johnny — even  if  she  does  like  beastly  silver- 
rod."  ' 

Somewhat  out  of  sorts  the  Duke  of  Connecti 
cut  set  off  abruptly  through  the  trees  with  the 
dog  at  his  heels. 

Having  climbed  over  log  and  boulder  to  a  road 
which  cleft  the  mountain,  he  kept  on  to  the  north, 
descending  again  presently  to  the  level  of  the 
camp,  smoking  abstractedly  and  whistling  now 
and  then  for  Richard  Whittington,  who  was 
prone  to  ramble.  Philip  was  debating  whether 
or  not  he  had  better  turn  back,  for  the  moon 
was  already  edging  the  black  ravine  with  fire, 
when  a  camp  fire  and  the  silhouette  of  a  lonely 
camper  loomed  to  the  west  among  the  trees. 
Philip  puffed  forth  a  prodigious  cloud  of  smoke 
and  seated  himself  on  a  tree  stump. 

"My!  My!"  said  he  easily.  "Must  be  our 
invalid  and  his  rumpus  machine.  Whittington, 
we're  just  in  the  mood  to-night,  you  and  I,  to 
wander  over  there  and  tell  him  that  he's  not  get- 


The  Lonely  Camper  iss 

ting  half  so  much  over  on  us  as  he  thinks  he  is. 
I've  a  mind  to  send  you  forward  with  my  card." 

Philip's  eyes  narrowed  and  he  laughed  softly. 
Tearing  a  sheet  of  paper  from  a  notebook  he 
took  from  his  pocket,  he  scribbled  upon  it  the 
following  astonishing  message: 

"  The  Duke  of  Connecticut  desires  an  audience. 
Do  not  kick  the  courier! " 

Accustomed  by  now  to  carry  birch-bark  mes 
sages  to  Diane,  Richard  Whittington  waggled 
in  perfect  understanding  and  trotted  off  obe 
diently  toward  the  fire  with  Philip  close  at  his 
heels. 

Conceivably  astonished,  the  camper  presently 
picked  up  the  paper  which  Mr.  Whittington 
dropped  at  his  feet,  and  read  it.  As  Philip 
stepped  lazily  from  the  trees  he  turned. 

It  was  Baron  Tregar.     Both  men  stared. 

"The  Duke  of  Connecticut!"  at  length  rum 
bled  the  Baron  with  perfect  gravity.  "I  am 
overwhelmed." 

Philip,  much  the  more  astonished  of  the  two, 
laughed  and  bowed. 

"  Excellency,"  said  he  formally,  "  I  am  indeed 
astonished." 

"Pray  be  seated!"  invited  the  Baron,  his  eyes 
more  friendly  than  those  of  his  guest.  "  I,  too, 
have  taken  to  the  highway,  Poynter,  on  yonder 
motorcycle  and  I  have  lost  my  way."  He  sniffed 


186       Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

in  disgust.  "  I  am  dining,"  he  added  dryly,  "  if 
one  may  dignify  the  damnable  proceeding  by  that 
name,  on  potatoes  which  I  do  not  in  the  least 
know  how  to  bake  without  reducing  them  to 
cinders.  I  bought  them  a  while  back  at  a  deso 
late,  God-forsaken  farmhouse.  Heaven  deliver 
me  from  camping!" 

With  which  pious  ejaculation  the  Baron  in 
spected  his  smudged  and  blistered  fingers  and 
read  again  the  entertaining  message  from  the 
Duke  of  Connecticut. 

"Why  take  to  the  highway,"  begged  Philip 
guilelessly,  "when  the  task  is  so  unpleasant?'* 

"Ah!"  rumbled  the  Baron,  more  sombre  now, 
"there  is  a  man  with  a  music-machine — " 

"  There  is ! "  said  Philip  fervently. 

The  Baron  looked  hard  at  His  Highness,  the 
Duke  of  Connecticut.  The  latter  produced  his 
cigarette  case  and  opening  it  politely  for  the 
service  of  his  chief,  smiled  with  good  humor. 

"  There  is,"  said  he  coolly, "  a  man  with  a  music- 
machine,  a  mysterious  malady,  a  stained  skin  and 
a  volume  of  Herodotus!  Excellency  knows  the 
—  er — romantic  ensemble?" 

Excellency  not  only  knew  him,  but  for  days 
now,  taking  up  the  trail  at  a  certain  canal,  he 
had  traveled  hard  over  roads  strangely  littered 
with  hay  and  food  and  linen  collars  —  to  find  that 
romantic  ensemble.  He  added  with  grim  humor 


The  Lonely  Camper  187 

that  he  fancied  the  Duke  of  Connecticut  knew 
him  too.  The  Duke  dryly  admitted  that  this 
might  be  so.  His  memory,  though  conveniently 
porous  at  times,  was  for  the  most  part  excellent. 

"What  is  lie  doing?"  asked  the  Baron  with 
an  ominous  glint  of  his  fine  eyes. 

"  Excellency,"  said  Philip,  staring  hard  at  the 
end  of  his  cigarette,  "by  every  subtle  device  at 
his  command,  he  is  making  graceful  love  to  Miss 
Westfall,  who  is  sufficiently  wholesome  and 
happy  and  absorbed  in  her  gypsy  life  not  to  know 
it— yet!" 

The  Baron's  explosive  "  Ah ! "  was  a  compound 
of  wrath  and  outraged  astonishment.  Philip  felt 
his  attitude  toward  his  chief  undergoing  a  subtle 
revolution. 

"His  discretion,"  added  Philip  warmly,  "has 
departed  to  that  forgotten  limbo  which  has 
claimed  his  beard." 

The  Baron  was  staring  very  hard  at  the  camp 
fire. 

"So,"  said  he  at  last,  —  "it  is  for  this  that 
I  have  been  — "  he  searched  for  an  expressive 
Americanism,  and  shrugging,  invented  one, 
"  thunder-cracking  along  the  highway  in  search  of 
the  man  Themar  saw  by  the  fire  of  Miss  West- 
fall.  'It  is  incredible — it  can  not  be!'  said  I, 
as  I  blistered  about,  searching  here,  searching 
there,  losing  my  way  and  thunder-cracking  about 


188        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

in  dead  of  night  —  all  to  pick  up  the  trail  of  a 
green  and  white  van  and  a  music-machine !  *  It 
is  unbelievable  —  it  is  a  monstrous  mistake  on 
the  part  of  Themar!'  But,  Poynter,  this  love 
making,  in  the  circumstances,  passes  all  belief!" 
The  Baron  added  that  twice  within  the  week  he 
had  passed  the  hay-camp  but  that  by  some  un 
lucky  fatality  he  had  always  contrived  to  miss  the 
music-machine. 

"Days  back,"  rumbled  the  Baron  thought 
fully,  "I  assigned  to  Themar  the  task  of  dis 
covering  the  identity  of  the  man  who  —  er  —  ac 
quired  a  certain  roadster  of  mine  and  who,  I 
felt  fairly  certain,  would  not  lose  track  of  Miss 
Westfall  but  Themar,  Poynter,  came  to 
grief-" 

'Yes?"  said  Philip  coolly.  'You  interest  me 
exceedingly." 

"He  made  his  way  back  to  me  after  many 
weeks  of  illness,"  said  the  Baron  slowly,  "\vith 
a  curious  tale  of  a  terrible  thrashing,  of  a  barge 
and  mules,  of  rough  men  who  kicked  him  about 
and  consigned  him  to  a  city  jail  under  the  mali 
cious  charge  of  a  mule-driver  who  swore  that  he 
loved  not  black-and-tans — 

"  Lord ! "  said  Philip  politely ;  "  that  was  tough, 
wasn't  it?" 

"  Just  what,  Poynter,"  begged  the  Baron,  "  is 
a  black-and-tan?" 


The  Lonely  Camper  189 

Mr.  Poynter  fancied  he  had  heard  the  term 
before.  It  might  have  reference  to  the  celor  of 
a  man's  skin  and  hair. 

An  uncomfortable  silence  fell  over  the  Baron's 
camp.  The  Baron  himself  was  the  first  to 
break  it. 

"  Poynter,"  said  he  bluntly,  "  the  circumstances 
of  our  separation  at  Sherrill's  have  engendered, 
with  reason,  a  slight  constraint.  There  was  a 
night  when  you  grievously  misjudged  me  —  " 

"I  am  willing,"  admitted  Philip  politely,  "to 
hear  why  I  should  alter  my  views." 

"Mon  Dieu,  Poynter!"  boomed  the  Baron  in 
exasperation,  "you  are  maddening.  When  you 
are  politest,  I  fume  and  strike  fire  —  here 
within!" 

"Mental  arson!"  shrugged  the  Duke  of  Con 
necticut,  relighting  his  cigarette  with  a  blazing 
twig.  "  For  that  singular  crime,  Excellency,  my 
deepest  apologies." 

The  Baron  stared,  frowned,  and  laughed.  One 
may  know  very  little  of  one's  secretary,  after  all. 

'  You  are  a  curious  young  man ! "  said  he. 

The  Duke  of  Connecticut  admitted  that  this 
might  be  so.  Hay,  therapeutically,  had  effected 
an  astonishing  revolution  in  a  nature  disposed 
congenitally  to  peace  and  trustfulness.  Local 
applications  of  hay  had  made  him  exceedingly 
suspicious  and  hostile.  So  much  so  indeed  that 


190        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

for  days  now  he  had  slept  by  day,  to  the  total 
wreck  of  his  aesthetic  reputation,  and  watched  by 
night,  convinced  that  Miss  Westfall's  camp  was 
prone  to  strange  and  dangerous  visitors.  Excel 
lency  no  doubt  remembered  the  knife  and  the 
bullet. 

The  Baron  sighed. 

"  Poynter,"  he  said  simply,  "  to  a  man  of  my 
nature  and  diplomatic  position,  a  habit  of  can 
dor  is  difficult.  I  wonder,  however,  if  you  would 
accept  my  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman  that  I 
know  as  little  of  this  treacherous  bullet  as  you; 
that  for  all  I  am  bound  to  secrecy,  my  sincerest 
desire  is  to  protect  Miss  Westfall  from  the 
peculiar  consequences  of  this  damnable  muddle, 
to  clear  up  the  mystery  of  the  bullet,  and  for 
more  selfish  reasons  to  protect  her  from  the  ro 
mantic  folly  of  the  man  with  the  music-machine  1 " 

Philip,  his  frank,  fine  face  alive  with  honest 
relief,  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Excellency,"  said  he  warmly,  "  one  may 
learn  more  of  his  chief  over  a  camp  fire,  it  seems, 
than  in  months  of  service.  Our  paths  lie  par 
allel."  There  was  a  subtle  compact  in  the  hand 
shake. 

"What,"  questioned  the  Baron  presently, 
"think  you,  are  my  fine  gentleman's  plans, 
Poynter?" 

Philip  reddened. 


The  Lonely  Camper  101 

"Excellency,"  he  admitted,  "I  have  definite 
information  of  his  plans  which  I  did  not  seek." 

"And  the  source?" 

"Miss  Westfall's  servant." 

"Ah!" 

"There  are  certain  atmospheric  conditions," 
regretted  Philip,  "intensely  bad  for  hay-camps, 
wherefore  I  found  myself  obliged  to  seek  an 
occasional  understudy  who  would  not  only  blaze 
the  trail  for  me  but  do  faithful  sentry  duty  in  my 
absence.  And  Johnny,  Excellency,  whom  I 
pledged  to  this  secret  service,  uncomfortably  in 
sists  upon  reporting  to  me  much  unnecessary 
detail.  He  has  developed  a  most  unreasoning 
dislike  for  music-machines  and  musical  gypsies." 

"  There  appears  to  be  a  general  prejudice 
against  them,"  admitted  the  Baron  grimly. 

"A  while  back,  then,"  resumed  Philip, 
"Johnny  chanced  upon  the  information  that  in 
January  Miss  Westfall  will  be  a  guest  of  Ann 
Sherrill's  at  Palm  Beach.  So  will  our  minstrel 
—  still  incognito  —  " 

"Excellent!"  rumbled  the  Baron  with  relish. 
"  Excellent.  If  all  this  be  true,"  he  added,  mud 
dling  an  Americanism,  "we  have  then,  of  the 
horse  another  color  I " 

"Later,"  said  Philip,  "when  Miss  Westfall 
returns  to  her  house  on  wheels,  I  imagine  he  too 


192        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

will  take  to  the  road  again  —  and  resume  his 
charming  erotics." 

"That,"  said  the  Baron  with  decision,  "is 
most  undesirable." 

"I  agree  with  you!"  said  Philip  feelingly. 

"I  too  have  promised  to  be  a  guest  at  Miss 
Sherrill's  fete  de  nuitl"  purred  the  Baron 
suavely.  "And  you,  Poynter?" 

"Unfortunately  Miss  Sherrill  knows  abso 
lutely  nothing  of  my  whereabouts." 

"  Sherrill  days  ago  entrusted  me  with  a  cordial 
invitation  for  you.  He  was  unaware  of  our  dis 
agreement  and  expected  you  to  accompany  me. 
As  my  official  secretary,  Poynter,  for,  let  us  say 
the  month  of  January,  it  is  possible  for  me  to 
command  your  attendance  at  Palm  Beach." 

"Excellency,"  said  Philip  slowly,  "singular 
as  it  may  seem  in  my  present  free  lance  state, 
I  am  greatly  desirous  of  hearing  such  a  com 
mand." 

"Poynter,"  boomed  the  Baron  formally,  "in 
January  I  shall  be  overweighted  with  diplomatic 
duties  at  Palm  Beach.  I  regret  exceedingly  that 
I  am  forced  to  command  your  attendance.  This 
frivoling  about  must  cease."  He  shook  suddenly 
with  silent  laughter.  "  Doubtless,"  said  he,  meet 
ing  Philip's  amused  glance  with  level  sig 
nificance,  "doubtless,  Poynter,  we  can  —  " 


The  Lonely  Camper  193 

'  Yes,"  said  Philip  with  much  satisfaction,  "  I 
think  we  can." 

They  fell  to  chatting  in  lower  voices  as  the  fire 
died  down. 

"Meanwhile,"  shrugged  the  disgusted  Baron 
a  little  later,  "  I  shall  abandon  that  accursed 
music-machine  to  its  fate,  and  rest.  God  knows  I 
am  but  an  indifferent  nomad  and  need  it  sorely. 
Night  and  day  have  I  thunder-cracked  the  high 
ways,  losing  my  way  and  my  temper  until  I  loathe 
camps  and  motor  machines  and  dust  and  wind 
and  baked  potatoes.  I  sincerely  hope,  Poynter, 
that  you  can  find  me  the  road  to  an  inn  and  a  bed, 
a  bath  and  some  iced  mint — to-night." 

Philip  could  and  did.  Presently  standing  by 
his  abominated  motorcycle  on  a  lonely  moonlit 
road,  the  Baron  adjusted  his  leather  cap  and 
stroked  his  beard. 

"  Do  you  know,  Poynter,"  said  he  slowly,  "  this 
is  a  most  mysterious  motorcycle.  It  was  crated 
to  me  from  an  unknown  village  in  Pennsylvania 
by  the  hand  of  God  knows  whom!" 

"Excellency,"  said  Phiilp  politely  as  he  cor 
dially  shook  hands  with  his  chief,  "  The  world,  I 
find,  is  full  of  mystery." 

Rumbling  the  Baron  mounted  and  rode  away. 
With  a  slight  smile,  Philip  watched  him  thunder- 
cracking  disgustedly  along  the  dusty  road  back 
to  civilization. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A  DECEMBER  SNOW   STORM 

AS  THE  dusty  wanderers  wound  slowly  down 
into  southern  Georgia  on  a  mild  bright 
day,  a  December  snow  storm  broke  with  flake  and 
flurry  over  the  Westfall  farm.  Whirling,  croon 
ing,  pirouetting,  the  mad  white  ghost  swept 
down  from  the  hills  and  hurled  itself  with  a 
rattle  of  shutters  and  stiffened  boughs  against 
the  frozen  valley.  By  nightfall  the  wind  was 
wailing  eerily  through  the  chimneys;  but  the 
checkerboard  panes  of  light  one  glimpsed  through 
the  trees  of  the  Westfall  lane  were  bright  and 
cheery. 

In  the  comfortable  sitting  room  of  the  farm 
house,  Carl  rose  and  drew  the  shades,  added  a  log 
to  the  great,  open  fireplace  and  glanced  humor 
ously  at  his  companion  who  was  industriously 
playing  Canfield. 

"  Well,  Dick,"  said  he,  "  on  with  your  overcoat. 
Now  that  supper's  done,  we've  a  tramp  ahead 
of  us." 

Wherry  rebelled. 

11  Oh,  Lord,  Carl ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Hear  the 
wind! "  He  rose  and  drew  aside  the  shade.  "  The 
lane's  thick  with  snow.  Heavens,  man,  it's  no 

194 


A  December  Snow  Storm       195 

night  for  a  tramp.  Allan's  coming  in  with  the 
mail  and  he  looks  like  a  snow  man." 

'You  promised,"  reminded  Carl  inexorably. 
"How  long  since  you've  had  a  drink,  Dick?" 

"Nine  weeks!"  said  Wherry,  his  boyish  face 
kindling  suddenly  with  pride. 

"  And  your  eyes  and  skin  are  clear  and  you're 
lean  and  hard  as  a  race  horse.  But  what  a  fight ! 
What  a  fight!"  Carl  slipped  his  arm  suddenly 
about  the  other's  broad  shoulders.  "Come  on, 
Dick,"  he  urged  gently.  "  It's  discipline  and  en 
durance  to-night.  I  want  you  to  fight  this  icy 
wind  and  grit  your  teeth  against  it.  Every  bat 
tle  won  makes  a  force  furrow  in  your  will." 

He  met  Wherry's  eyes  and  smiled  with  a  flash 
of  the  irresistible  magnetism  which  somehow 
awoke  unconscious  response  in  those  who  beheld 
it.  It  flamed  now  in  Wherry's  clear  young  eyes, 
a  look  of  dumb  fidelity  such  as  one  sees  now  and 
then  in  the  eyes  of  a  faithful  animal.  Such  a 
look  had  flashed  at  times  in  the  bloated  face  of 
Hunch  Dorrigan,  in  the  eyes  of  young  Allan 
Carmody  here  at  the  farm,  and — in  early  man 
hood  when  Carl  had  lazily  set  a  college  by  the 
ears  —  in  the  eyes  of  Philip  Poynter.  It  was  the 
nameless  force  which  the  faculty  had  dreaded, 
for  it  sent  men  flocking  at  the  heels  of  one  whose 
daring  whims  were  as  incomprehensible  as  they 
were  unexpected  and  original. 


196        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Young  Allan  brought  the  mail  in  and  Carl 
smilingly  tossed  a  letter  to  Wherry,  who  colored 
and  slipped  it  in  his  pocket  with  an  air  of  studied 
indifference. 

Carl  slit  the  two  directed  to  himself  and  rap 
idly  scanned  their  contents.  One  was  from  Ann 
Sherrill  jogging  his  memory  about  a  promise 
to  come  to  Palm  Beach  in  January,  the  other 
from  Aunt  Agatha,  whose  trip  to  her  cousin's  in 
Indiana  Carl  had  encouraged  with  a  great  flood 
of  relief,  for  it  had  made  possible  this  nine  weeks 
with  Wherry  at  the  Glade  Farm. 

Two  steps  at  a  time,  Wherry  bounded  up  to  his 
room.  When  he  returned  he  was  in  better  spir 
its  than  he  had  been  for  months. 

"  Come  on,  Carl,"  he  exclaimed  boyishly.  "  I'll 
walk  down  any  gale  to-night.  And  Allan  says 
we're  in  for  a  blizzard." 

Breasting  the  biting  gale,  the  two  men  swung 
out  through  the  snowy  lane  to  the  roadway. 

Carl  watched  his  companion  in  silence.  It  was 
a  test — this  wind — to  see  how  much  of  a  man 
had  been  made  from  the  flabby,  drunken  wreck 
he  had  dragged  to  the  Glade  Farm  weeks  ago 
with  a  masterful  command.  It  had  been  a  bit 
ter  fight,  with  days  of  heavy  sullenness  on  Wher 
ry's  part  and  swift  apology  when  the  mood  was 
gone,  days  of  hard  riding  and  walking,  of  icy 
plunges  after  a  racking  grind  of  exercise  for 


A  December  Snow  Storm       197 

which  Carl  himself  with  his  splendid  strength 
inexorably  set  the  pace,  days  of  fierce  rebellion 
when  he  had  calmly  thrashed  his  suffering  young 
guest  into  submission  and  locked  him  in  his  room, 
days  of  horrible  choking  remorse  and  pleading 
when  Carl  had  grimly  turned  away  from  the  pit 
iful  wreck  Starrett  had  made  of  his  clever  young 
secretary. 

Once  Starrett  had  motored  up  officiously  to 
bully  Wherry  into  coming  back  to  him.  Carl 
smiled.  Starrett  had  stumbled  back  to  his  waiting 
motor  with  a  broken  rib  and  a  bruised  and  swollen 
face.  Starrett  was  a  coward — he  would  not 
come  again. 

Carl  glanced  again  at  Wherry.  It  was  a  man 
who  walked  beside  him  to-night.  The  battle  was 
over.  Chin  up,  shoulders  squared  against  the  bit 
ter  wind,  he  walked  with  the  free,  full  stride  of 
health  and  new  endurance,  tossing  the  snow  from 
his  dark,  heavy  hair  with  a  laugh.  There  was 
clear  red  in  his  face  and  his  eyes  were  shining. 

Five  miles  in  the  teeth  of  a  sleety  blizzard  and 
every  muscle  ached  with  the  fight. 

"Dick,"  said  Carl  suddenly,  "I'm  proud  of 
you." 

Wherry  swung  sturdily  on  his  heel. 
"  But  you  won  for  me,  Carl,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I'll  not  forget  that." 

In  silence  they  tramped  back  through  the  heavy 


198        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

drifts  to  the  farmhouse  and  left  their  snowy  coats 
in  the  great  warm  kitchen  where  the  Carmodys 
—  old  Allan  and  young  Allan,  young,  shy,  pretty 
Mary  and  old  Mary,  the  sole  winter  servants  of 
the  Glade — were  mulling  cider  over  a  red-hot 
stove. 

By  the  fire  in  the  sitting  room  Dick  faced  his 
host  with  hot  color  in  his  face. 

"  Carl,"  he  said  with  an  effort,  "  my  letter  to 
night  —  it's  from  a  girl  up  home  in  Vermont.  I 
—  I've  never  spoken  of  her  before — I  wasn't 
fit—" 

"Yes? "said  Carl. 

"She's  a  little  bit  of  a  girl  with  wonderful 
eyes,"  said  Wherry,  his  eyes  gentle.  "  We  used 
to  play  a  lot  by  the  brook,  Carl,  until  I  went  away 
to  college  and  forgot.  I  —  I  wrote  her  the  whole 
wretched  mess,"  he  choked.  "  She  says  come 
back." 

l<  Yes,"  said  Carl  sombrely,  "  there  are  fine,  big 
splendid  women  like  that.  I'm  glad  you  know 
one.  God  knows  what  the  world  of  men  would 
do  without  them.  You'll  go  back  to  her?" 

Wherry  gulped  courageously. 

"If— if  you  think  I'm  fit,"  he  said,  his  face 
white.  "If  you  feel  you  can  trust  me,  I'll  go  in 
the  morning." 

"  I  know  I  can  trust  you,"  said  Carl  with  his 
swift,  ready  smile.  "  I  know,  old  man,  that  you'll 
not  forget." 


A  December  Snow  Storm       199 

"No,"  said  Dick,  "I  can't  forget." 

"Tell  me,"  Carl  bent  and  turned  the  log. 
"What  will  you  do  now,  Dick?  I  know  your 
head  was  turned  a  bit  by  the  salary  Starrett 
gave  you,  but  you'll  not  go  back  to  that  sort  of 
work  for  a  while  anyway,  will  you?" 

"  No,"  said  Dick.  "  If  I  knew  something  of 
scientific  farming,"  he  added  after  a  while,  "I 
think  I'd  stay  home.  Dad's  a  doctor,  a  kindly, 
old-fashioned  chap.  I  —  I'd  like  to  have  you 
know  him,  Carl  —  he's  a  bully  sort.  He's  living 
up  there  in  Vermont  on  a  farm  that's  never  been 
developed  to  its  full  possibilities.  It's  the  best 
farm  in  the  valley,  but,  you  see,  he  hasn't  the 
time  and  he's  growing  old  — " 

"Why  not  take  a  course  at  an  agricultural 
college?" 

Wherry  colored. 

"  I  haven't  the  money,  Carl,"  he  acknowledged 
honestly.  "Most  of  Dad's  savings  went  to  see 
me  through  college.  I've  a  little  —  " 

"Would  a  thousand  a  year  see  you  through, 
with  what  you've  got?"  asked  Carl  quietly. 

But  Wherry  did  not  answer.  He  had  walked 
away  to  the  window,  shaking.  Presently  he 
turned  back  to  the  table,  but  his  face  was  white 
and  his  eyes  dark  with  agony.  Dropping  into  a 
chair  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  unnerved  at 
the  end  of  his  fight  by  Carl's  offer. 


200        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Wisely  the  man  by  the  fire  let  him  fight  it  out 
by  himself  and  for  an  interval  there  was  no  sound 
in  the  quiet  room  save  the  crackle  of  the  log  and 
the  great  choking  breaths  of  the  boy  by  the  table, 
whose  head  had  fallen  forward  on  his  outstretched 
arms. 

Carl  threw  his  cigar  into  the  fire  and  rose. 

"  Brace  up,  Dick!  "  he  said  at  length.  "  We've 
been  touching  the  high  spots  up  here  and  you 
were  strung  to  a  tension  that  had  to  break."  He 
crossed  to  Wherry  and  laid  his  hand  heavily  on 
the  boy's  heaving  shoulder.  "  Now,  Dick,  I  want 
you  to  listen  to  me.  I'm  going  to  see  you  through 
an  agricultural  college  and  you're  not  going  to 
tell  me  I  can't  afford  it.  I  know  it  already.  But 
I've  four  thousand  a  year  and  that's  so  far  off 
from  what  I  need  to  live  in  my  way  —  that  a  thou 
sand  or  so  one  way  or  the  other  wouldn't  make 
any  more  difference  than  a  snowflake  in  hell.  I 
owe  you  something  anyway — God  knows!  —  for 
supplying  the  model  that  sent  you  to  perdition. 
If  you  hadn't  paid  me  the  ingenuous  compliment 
of  unremitting  imitation,  you'd  have  been  a  sight 
better  off.  .  .  .  And  you're  going  to  marry  the 
white  little  girl  with  the  beautiful  eyes  and  the 
wonderful,  sweet  forgiving  decency  of  heart,  and 
bring  up  a  crowd  of  God-fearing  youngsters, 
make  over  the  old  doctor's  farm  for  him  —  and 


A  December  Snow  Storm       201 

likely  his  life  —  and  begin  afresh.  That's  all  I 
ask.  Now  to  bed  with  you." 

Wherry  wrung  Carl's  hand,  and  after  a  pas 
sionate,  incoherent  storm  of  gratitude  stumbled 
blindly  from  the  room. 

The  old  house  grew  very  quiet.  Presently  to 
the  crackle  of  the  fire  and  the  wild  noise  of  the 
wind  outside  was  added  the  soft  and  melancholy 
lilt  of  a  flute.  There  was  no  mockery  or  impu 
dence  in  the  strain  to-night.  It  was  curiously  of 
a  piece  with  the  creaking  loneliness  of  the  ancient 
farmhouse  and  so  soft  at  times  that  the  clash  of 
the  frozen  branches  against  the  house  engulfed 
it  utterly. 

Sombre,  swayed  by  a  surge  of  deep  depression, 
the  flutist  lay  back  in  his  chair  by  the  fire,  piping 
moodily  upon  the  friend  he  always  carried  in  his 
pocket.  To-morrow  Dick  would  be  off  to  the 
girl  in  Vermont — 

The  clock  struck  twelve.  The  rural  world  was 
wrapped  in  slumber.  Above-stairs  Dick  was 
sleeping  the  sound,  dreamless  sleep  of  healthy 
weariness,  and  most  likely  dreaming  of  the  girl 
by  the  brook.  A  cleansed  body  and  a  cleansed 
mind,  thank  God !  So  had  he  slept  for  nights  while 
the  inexorable  master  of  his  days,  with  no  com 
panion  but  his  flute,  drank  and  drank  until  dawn, 
climbing  up  to  bed  at  cockcrow — sometimes 


202        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

drunk  and  morose,  sometimes  a  grim  and  con 
scious  master  of  the  bottle. 

Carl  had  been  drinking  wildly,  heavily  for 
months.  That  in  flagellating  Wherry's  body  day 
by  day  he  spared  not  himself,  was  characteristic 
of  the  man  and  of  his  will.  That  he  preached 
and  dragged  a  man  from  the  depths  of  hell  by 
day  and  deliberately  descended  into  infernal 
abysses  by  night,  was  but  another  revelation  of 
the  wild,  inconsistent  humors  which  tore  his  soul. 
Youth  and  indomitable  physique  gave  him  as  yet 
clear  eyes  and  muscles  of  iron,  for  all  he  abused 
them,  but  the  humors  of  his  soul  from  day  to 
day  grew  blacker. 

Kronberg,  a  new  servant  Carl  had  brought 
with  him  to  the  Glade  for  personal  attendance, 
presently  brought  in  his  nightly  tray  of  whiskey. 

Carl  glanced  at  the  bottle  and  frowned. 

"Take  it  away!"  he  said  curtly. 

Kronberg  obeyed. 

A  little  later,  white  and  very  tired,  Carl  went 
up  to  bed. 

Dick  went  in  the  morning.  At  the  door,  after 
chatting  nervously  to  cover  the  surge  of  emotion 
in  his  heart,  he  held  out  his  hand.  Neither  spoke. 

"Carl,"  choked  Wherry  at  last,  meeting  the 
other's  eyes  with  a  glance  of  wild  imploring,  "  so 
help  me  God,  I'll  run  straight.  You  know  that  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Carl  truthfully,  "I  know  it." 


A  December  Snow  Storm       203 

An  interval  of  desperate  silence,  then:  "I  — 
I  can't  thank  you,  old  man,  I  —  I'd  like  to 
but  —  " 

"  No,"  said  Carl.    "  I  wish  you  wouldn't." 

And  Wherry,  wildly  wringing  his  hand  for  the 
last  time,  was  off  to  the  sleigh  waiting  in  the 
lane,  a  lean,  quivering  lad  with  blazing  eyes  of 
gratitude  and  a  great  choke  in  his  throat  as  he 
waved  at  Carl,  who  smiled  back  at  him  with  lazy 
reassurance  through  the  smoke  of  a  cigarette. 

Carl's  day  was  restless  and  very  lonely.  By 
midnight  he  was  drinking  heavily,  having  ac 
cepted  the  tray  this  time  and  dismissed  Kronberg 
for  the  night.  Though  the  snow  had  abated  some 
the  night  before,  and  ceased  in  the  morning,  it 
was  again  whirling  outside  in  the  lane  with  the 
wild  abandon  of  a  Bacchante.  The  wind  too  was 
rising  and  filling  the  house  with  ghostly  creaks. 

It  was  one  of  those  curious  nights  when  John 
Barleycorn  chose  to  be  kind — when  mind  and 
body  stayed  alert  and  keen.  Carl  lazily  poured 
some  whiskey  in  the  fire  and  watched  the  flame 
burn  blue.  He  could  not  rid  his  mind  of  the 
doctor's  farm  and  the  girl  in  Vermont. 

Again  the  wind  shook  the  farmhouse  and 
danced  and  howled  to  its  crazy  castanetting. 
There  was  a  creak  in  the  hallway  beyond.  Last 
night,  too,  when  he  had  been  talking  to  Wherry, 
there  had  been  such  a  creak  and  for  the  moment, 


204        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

he  recalled  vividly,  there  had  been  no  wind.  Then, 
disturbed  by  Dick's  utter  collapse,  he  had  care 
lessly  dismissed  it.  Now  with  his  bruin  danger 
ously  edged  by  the  whiskey  and  his  mind  brood 
ing  intently  over  a  series  of  mysterious  and 
sinister  adventures  which  had  enlivened  his  sum 
mer,  he  rose  and  stealing  catlike  to  the  door, 
flung  it  suddenly  back. 

Kronberg,  his  dark,  thin-lipped  face  ashen, 
fell  headlong  into  the  room  with  a  revolver  in 
his  hand. 

With  the  tigerish  agility  which  had  served  him 
many  a  time  before  Carl  leaped  for  the  revolver 
and  smiling  with  satanic  interest  leveled  it  at  the 
man  at  his  feet. 

"  So,"  said  he  softly,  "  you,  too,  are  a  link  in 
the  chain.  Get  up!" 

Sullenly  Kronberg  obeyed. 

"If  you  are  a  good  shot,"  commented  Carl 
coolly,  "the  bullet  you  sent  from  this  doorway 
would  have  gone  through  my  head.  That  was 
your  intention?" 

Kronberg  made  no  pretense  of  reply. 

'You've  been  here  nine  weeks,"  sympathized 
Carl,  "  and  were  cautious  enough  to  wait  until 
Wherry  departed.  What  a  pity  you  were  so 
delayed!  Caution,  my  dear  Kronberg,  if  I  may 
fall  into  epigram,  is  frequently  and  paradox 
ically  the  mother  of  disaster.  As  for  instance 


A  December  Snow  Storm       205 

your  own  case.  I  imagine  you're  a  blunderer 
anyway,"  he  added  impudently;  "your  fingers 
are  too  thick.  If  you  hadn't  been  so  anxious  to 
learn  when  Wherry  was  likely  to  go,"  guessed 
Carl  suddenly,  "you  wouldn't  have  listened  and 
creaked  at  the  keyhole  last  night.  And  more 
than  likely  you'd  have  gotten  that  creak  over 
on  me  to-night." 

Kronberg's  shifting  glance  roved  desperately 
to  the  doorway. 

"  Try  it,"  invited  Carl  pleasantly.  "  Do.  And 
I'll  help  you  over  the  threshold  with  a  little  lead. 
Do  you  know  the  way  to  the  attic  door  in  the 
west  wing?" 

Kronberg,  gulping  with  fear,  said  he  did  not. 
He  was  shaking  violently. 

"  Get  the  little  lamp  on  the  mantel  there,"  com 
manded  Carl  curtly,  "  and  light  it.  Bring  it  here. 
Now  you  will  kindly  precede  me  to  the  door  I 
spoke  of.  I'll  direct  you.  If  you  bolt  or  cry  out, 
I'll  send  a  bullet  through  your  head.  So  that 
you  may  not  be  tempted  to  waste  your  blood 
and  brains,  if  you  have  any,  and  my  patience, 
pray  recall  that  the  Carmodys  are  snugly  asleep 
by  now  in  the  east  wing  and  the  house  is  large. 
They  couldn't  hear  you." 

It  was  the  older  portion  of  the  house  and  one 
which  by  reason  of  its  draughts  was  rarely  used 
in  winter,  to  which  Carl  drove  his  shaking 


206        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

prisoner.  In  summer  it  was  cool  and  pleasant. 
In  winter,  however,  it  was  cut  off  from  heat  and 
habitation  by  lock  and  key. 

At  Carl's  curt  direction  Kronberg  turned  the 
key  in  the  door  and  passed  through  the  icy  file 
of  rooms  beyond  to  the  second  floor,  thence  to  a 
dusty  attic  where  the  sweep  of  the  wind  and  snow 
seemed  very  close,  and  on  to  an  ancient  cluster 
of  storerooms.  Years  back  when  the  old  farm 
house  had  been  an  inn,  shivering  servants  had 
made  these  chill  and  dusty  rooms  more  habitable. 
Now  with  the  deserted  wing  below  and  the  wind- 
feet  of  the  Bacchante  on  the  roof  above,  they 
were  inexpressibly  lonely  and  dreary. 

Kronberg  bit  his  lip  and  shuddered.  His  fear 
of  the  grim  young  guard  behind  him  had  been 
subtly  aggravated  by  the  desolation  of  his  des 
tined  jail. 

Halting  in  the  doorway  of  an  inner  room,  Carl 
held  the  light  high  and  nodded  with  approval. 

Its  dim  rays  fell  upon  dust  and  cobwebs,  trunks 
and  the  nondescript  relics  of  years  of  hoarding. 
There  were  no  windows;  only  a  skylight  above 
clouded  by  the  whirl  of  the  storm. 

Carl  seated  himself  upon  a  trunk,  placed  the 
lamp  beside  him  and  directed  his  guest  to  a  point 
opposite.  Kronberg,  with  dark,  fascinated  eyes 
glued  upon  the  glittering  steel  in  his  jailer's  hand, 
obeyed. 


A  December  Snow  Storm        207 

"Kronberg,"  said  Carl  coldly,  "there's  a  lot 
I  want  to  know.  Moreover,  I'm  going  to  know 
it.  Nor  shall  I  trust  to  drunken  jailers  as  I  did 
a  while  back  with  a  certain  compatriot  of  yours. 
Late  last  spring  when  you  sought  employment 
at  my  cousin's  town-house,  you  were  already,  I 
presume,  a  link  in  the  chain.  If  my  memory 
serves  me  correctly,  you  were  dismissed  after  ten 
days  of  service,  through  no  fault  of  your  own. 
The  house  was  closed  for  the  summer.  You  came 
to  me  again  this  fall  with  a  letter  of  recommen 
dation  from  Mrs.  Westfall.  Knowing  my 
aunt,"  reflected  Carl  dryly,  "that  is  really  very 
humorous.  What  were  you  doing  in  the  mean 
time  V" 

Carl  shifted  the  lamp  that  its  pale  fan  of  light 
might  fall  full  upon  the  other's  face. 

"Let  me  tell  you — do!"  said  he.  "For  I'm 
sure  I  know.  During  the  summer,  my  dear  Kron- 
berg,  I  was  the  victim  of  a  series  of  peculiar  and 
persistent  attacks.  To  a  growing  habit  of  unre 
mitting  vigilance  and  suspicion,  I  may  thank  my 
life.  As  for  the  peaceful  monotony  of  the  last 
nine  weeks,  doubtless  I  may  attribute  that  to  the 
constant  companionship  of  Wherry,  the  fact  that 
you  were  much  too  unpopular  with  the  Car- 
modys  as  a  foreigner  to  find  an  opportunity  of 
poisoning  my  food,  and  that  I've  fallen  into  the 
discreet  and  careful  habit  of  always  drinking 


208        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

from  a  fresh  bottle,  properly  sealed.  There  was 
a  chance  even  there,  but  you  were  not  clever 
enough  to  take  it.  You're  overcautious  and  a 
coward.  But  how  busy  you  must  have  been  be 
fore  that,"  he  purred  solicitously,  "  bolting  about 
in  various  disguises  after  me.  How  very  patient ! 
Dear,  dear,  if  Nature  had  only  given  you  brains 
enough  to  match  your  lack  of  scruples  —  " 

The  insolent  purr  of  his  musical  voice  whipped 
color  into  Kronberg's  cheeks.  Abruptly  he 
shifted  his  position  and  glared  stonily. 

"Venice,"  murmured  Carl  impudently, 
"Venice  called  them  bravi;  here  in  America  we 
brutally  call  them  gun-men,  but  honestly,  Tvron- 
berg,  in  all  respect  and  confidence,  you  really 
haven't  brains  and  originality  enough  for  a  clever 
professional  murderer.  Amateurish  killing  is  a 
sickly  sort  of  sport.  And  the  danger  of  it  I  Take 
for  instance  that  night  when  you  fancied  you  were 
a  motor  bandit  and  waylaid  me  on  the  way  to 
the  farm.  I  was  very  drunk  and  driving  madly 
and  I  nearly  got  you.  A  pretty  to-do  that  would 
have  been!  To  be  killed  by  an  amateur  and 
you  a  paid  professional!  My!  My!  Kronberg, 
I  blush  for  you.  I  really  do ! " 

He  rose  smiling,  though  his  eyes  were  danger 
ously  brilliant. 

"  Just  when,"  said  he  lazily,  "  did  you  steal  the 
paper  I  found  in  the  candlestick?  It's  gone  — " 


A  December  Snow  Storm       200 

He  had  struck  fire  from  the  stone  man  at  last. 
A  hopeless,  hunted  look  flamed  up  in  Kronberg's 
eyes  and  died  away. 

"Ah!"  guessed  Carl  keenly,  "so  you're  in 
some  muddle  there,  too,  eh?"  Kronberg  stared 
sullenly  at  the  dusty  floor. 

"A  silence  strike?"  inquired  Carl.  "Well 
we'll  see  how  you  feel  about  that  in  the  morning. 
As  for  the  skylight,  Kronberg,  if  you  feel  like 
skating  down  an  icy  roof  to  hell,  try  it." 

Whistling  softly,  Carl  backed  to  the  door  and 
disappeared.  An  instant  later  came  the  click  of 
a  key  in  the  lock.  He  had  taken  the  lamp  with 
him. 

Groping  desperately  about,  Kronberg  searched 
for  some  covering  to  protect  him  from  the  icy 
cold.  His  search  was  unsuccessful.  When  the 
skylight  grayed  at  dawn,  he  was  pacing  the  floor, 
white  and  shaking  with  the  chill. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AN  ACCOUNTING 

THE  KEY  clicked  in  the  lock.  Kronberg, 
huddled  in  a  corner,  stirred  and  cunningly 
hid  the  flimsy  coverings  of  chintz  he  had  un 
earthed  from  an  ancient  trunk.  For  three  days 
he  had  not  spoken,  three  days  of  bitter,  biting 
cold,  three  days  of  creaking,  lonely  quiet,  of 
mournful  wind  and  shifting  lights  above  the  glass 
overhead,  of  infernal  visitations  from  one  he  hpxl 
grown  to  fear  more  than  death  itself.  With  heavy 
chills  racking  his  numb  body,  with  flashes  of 
fever  and  clamping  pains  in  his  head,  his  endur 
ance  was  now  nearing  an  end. 

Bearing  a  tray  of  food,  Carl  entered  and  closed 
the  door. 

"I'm  still  waiting,  Kronberg,"  he  reminded 
coolly,  "  for  the  answers  to  those  questions." 

For  answer  Kronberg  merely  pushed  aside  the 
tray  of  food  with  a  shudder.  There  was  a  dread 
ful  nausea  to-day  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach. 

"So?"  said  Carl.  "Well,"  he  regretted, 
"  there  are  always  the  finger  stretchers.  They're 
crude,  Kronberg,  and  homemade,  but  in  time 
they'll  do  the  work." 

Kronberg's  face  grew  colorless  as  death  itself 
210 


An  Accounting  211 

as  his  mind  leaped  to  the  torture  of  the  day  be 
fore.  A  clamp  for  every  finger  tip,  a  metal  bar 
between  —  the  hell-conceived  device  invented  by 
his  jailer  forced  the  fingers  wide  apart  and  held 
them  there  as  in  vise  until  a  stiffness  bound  the 
aching  cords,  then  a  pain  which  crept  snakelike 
to  the  elbow  —  and  the  shoulder.  Then  when  the 
tortured  nerves  fell  wildly  to  telegraphing  spas 
modic  jerkings  of  distress  from  head  to  toe,  the 
shrugging  devil  with  the  flute  would  talk  vividly 
of  roaring  wood  fires  and  the  comforts  awaiting 
the  penitent  below.  Yesterday  Kronberg  had 
fainted.  To-day  — 

Carl  presently  took  the  singular  metal  con 
trivance  from  his  pocket,  deftly  clamped  the 
fingers  of  his  victim  and  sat  down  to  wait,  rum 
maging  for  his  flute. 

The  tension  snapped. 

Choking,  Kronberg  fell  forward  at  his  jailer's 
feet,  his  eyes  imploring. 

"Mercy,"  he  whispered.  "I  —  I  can  not 
bear  it." 

"Then  you  will  answer  what  I  ask?" 

"Yes." 

Carl  unsnapped  the  infernal  finger-stretcher 
and  dropped  it  in  his  pocket. 

"Come,"  said  he  not  unkindly  and  led  his 
weak  and  staggering  prisoner  to  a  room  in  the 
west  wing  where  a  log  fire  was  blazing  brightly 
in  the  fireplace. 


212        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

With  a  moan  Kronberg  broke  desperately 
away  from  his  grasp  and  flung  himself  violently 
upon  his  knees  by  the  fire,  stretching  his  arms  out 
pitifully  to  the  blaze  and  chattering  and  moaning 
like  a  thing  demented.  Carl  walked  away  to  the 
window. 

Presently  the  man  by  the  fire  crept  humbly  to 
a  chair,  a  broken  creature  in  the  clutch  of  fever, 
eyes  and  skin  unnaturally  bright. 

"  Here,"  said  Carl,  pouring  him  some  brandy 
from  a  decanter  on  the  table.  "  Sit  quietly  for  a 
while  and  close  your  eyes.  Are  you  better  now  ? " 
he  asked  a  little  later. 

'Yes,"  said  Kronberg  faintly. 

11  What  is  your  real  name? " 

"Themar." 

"When  you  took  service  with  my  aunt  in  the 
spring,  you  were  looking  for  a  certain  paper?" 

"Yes." 

"  Did  you  find  it  during  your  ten  days  in  the 
town-house?" 

"  Xo." 

"How  did  you  discover  its  whereabouts?" 

"  One  night  I  watched  you  replace  it  in  a  secret 
drawer  in  your  room.  Before  I  could  obtain  it, 
the  house  was  closed  for  the  summer  and  I  was 
dismissed.  I  had  succeeded,  however,  in  getting 
an  impression  of  the  desk  lock." 

"You  went  back  later?" 


An  Accounting  213 

"  Yes.  It  was  a  summer  day  —  very  hot.  The 
front  door  was  ajar.  I  opened  it  wider.  Your 
aunt  sat  upon  the  floor  of  the  hall  crying — " 

"Yes?" 

"  I  spoke  of  passing  and  seeing  the  door  ajar. 
She  recognized  me  as  one  of  the  servants  and 
begged  me  to  call  a  taxi.  I  assisted  her  to  the 
taxi  and  went  back,  having  only  pretended  to 
lock  the  door." 

"And  having  disposed  of  her,"  supplied  Carl, 
"you  flew  up  the  stairs,  applied  the  key  made 
from  the  impression  —  and  stole  the  paper?" 

"Yes." 

"  Beautiful ! "  said  Carl  softly.  "  How  cleverly 
you  tricked  me ! " 

Themar  shrugged. 

"  It  was  very  simple." 

Carl  smiled. 

"Where  is  the  paper  now?"  he  inquired. 

Themar's  face  darkened. 

"When  later  I  looked  in  the  pocket  of  my 
coat,"  he  admitted,  "  the  paper  had  disappeared 
utterly.  Nor  have  I  found  it  since.  It  is  a  very 
great  mystery  —  " 

"Ah!"  said  Carl.  "So,"  he  mused,  "as  long 
as  the  paper  was  in  my  possession,  my  life  was 
safe,  for  you  must  watch  me  to  find  it.  There 
fore  I  was  not  poisoned  or  stabbed  or  shot  at 
during  your  original  ten  days  of  service.  Later, 


214        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

even  though  you  could  not  lay  your  own  hands 
upon  the  paper,  things  began  to  happen.  Know 
ing  what  I  did,  I  had  lived  too  long  as  it  was." 

"Yes." 

"Suppose  you  begin  at  the  beginning  —  and 
tell  me  just  what  you  know." 

It  was  a  halting,  nervous  tale  poorly  told. 
Carl,  with  his  fastidious  respect  for  a  careful 
array  of  facts,  found  it  trying.  By  a  word  here 
or  a  sentence  there,  he  twisted  the  mass  of  imper 
fect  information  into  conformity  and  pieced  it 
out  with  knowledge  of  his  own. 

"  So,"  said  he  coldly,  "  you  thought  to  stab  me 
the  night  of  the  storm  and  stabbed  Poynter. 
Fool!  Why,"  he  added  curtly,  "did  you  later 
spy  upon  my  cousin's  camp  when  Tregar  had  ex 
pressly  forbidden  it  ? " 

It  was  an  unexpected  question.  Themar 
flushed  uncomfortably.  Carl  had  a  way  of  read 
ing  between  the  lines  that  was  exceedingly  dis 
concerting.  His  information,  he  said  at  length 
after  an  interval  of  marked  hesitancy,  had  been 
too  meager.  He  had  listened  at  the  door  once 
when  the  Baron  had  spoken  of  Miss  Westfall 
to  his  secretary.  A  housemaid  had  frightened 
him  away  and  he  had  bolted  upstairs  —  to  attend 
to  something  else  while  they  were  both  safely  oc 
cupied.  Rather  than  work  blindly  as  he  needs 


An  Accounting  215 

must  if  he  knew  no  more,  he  had  sought  to  add  to 
his  information  by  spying  on  her  camp. 

It  was  unconvincing. 

"So,"  said  Carl  keenly,  "Baron  Tregar  does 
not  trust  you!" 

Themar's  lip  curled. 

"The  Baron  knew  of  your  ten  days  in  my 
cousin's  house  ? " 

Again  the  marked  hesitancy — the  flush. 

"  Yes,"  said  Themar. 

"You're  lying,"  said  Carl  curtly.  "If  you 
wish  to  go  back — " 

Themar  moistened  his  dry  lips  and  shuddered. 

"No,"  he  whispered,  "he  did  not  know." 

"Why?" 

Themar  fell  to  trembling.  This  at  least  he 
must  keep  locked  from  the  grim,  ironic  man  by 
the  window. 

"  You're  playing  double  with  Tregar  and  with 
me,"  said  Carl  hotly.  "I  thought  so.  Very 
well!"  Smiling  infernally,  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  the  finger-stretchers. 

"Excellency!"  panted  Themar. 

"  Why  did  you  serve  in  my  cousin's  house  with 
out  the  knowledge  of  the  Baron?" 

"  If — if  the  secret  was  harmful  to  Houdania," 
blurted  Themar  desperately,  spurred  to  confes 
sion  by  the  clank  of  the  metal  in  Carl's  hand, 
"I  —  I  could  sell  the  paper  to  Galituria!" 


216        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

The  nature  of  the  admission  was  totally  unex 
pected.  Carl  whistled  softly. 

"Ah!"  said  he,  raising  expressive  eyebrows. 

"  My  mother,"  said  Themar  sullenly,  "  was  of 
Galituria.  There  is  hatred  there  for  Houdania  — 
a  century's  feud  —  " 

"  And  you  in  the  employ  of  the  rival  province 
hunting  this  to  earth!  What  a  mess  —  what  a 
mess!" 

Followed  a  battery  of  merciless  questions  punc 
tuated  by  the  diabolic  clank  of  metal. 

Themar  had  been  deputed  solely  to  report  to 
Baron  Tregar  — 

"  And  murder  me !  "  supplemented  Carl  curtly. 

'  Yes,"  said  Themar.  "  Under  oath  I  was  to 
obey  Ronador's  commands  without  question.  But 
he  did  not  even  trust  me  with  the  cipher  mes 
sage  of  instruction.  That  was  mailed  to  the 
Baron's  Washington  address  written  in  an  ink 
that  only  turned  dark  with  the  heat  of  a  fire.  I 
too  was  sent  to  Washington.  Ronador  knew 
nothing  of  the  Baron's  trip  to  Connecticut." 

By  spying  before  he  had  sailed,  Themar  added, 
at  a  question  from  Carl,  he  had  learned  of  the 
cipher. 

'  You  read  the  paper  of  course  when  you  stole 
it  from  my  desk?" 

"There  was  a  noise,"  said  Themar  dully,  his 
face  bitter;  "I  ran  for  the  street.  Later  the 
paper  was  gone." 


An  Accounting  217 

"What  were  Tregar's  intentions  about  the 
paper?" 

Themar  chewed  nervously  at  his  lips. 

"  His  Excellency  spoke  to  me  of  a  paper.  He 
said  that  I  must  discover  its  whereabouts,  if  pos 
sible,  but  that  none  but  he  must  steal  it.  Any 
thing  written  which  you  would  seem  to  have 
hidden  would  be  of  interest  to  him.  He  bound 
me  by  a  terrible  oath  not  to  touch  or  read  it." 

"And  you?" 

"  After  a  time  I  swore  that  I  had  seen  you  burn 
it  —  " 

"  Clumsy!  Still  if  he  believed  it,  it  left  me,  in 
the  event  of  Miss  Westfall's  complete  ignorance 
of  all  this  hubbub,  the  sole  remaining  obstacle." 

But  Themar  had  not  heard.  He  was  shaking 
again  in  the  clutch  of  a  heavy  chill.  Presently, 
his  sentences  having  trailed  off  once  or  twice  into 
peculiar  incoherency,  he  fell  to  talking  wildly 
of  a  hut  in  the  Sherrill  woods  in  which  he  had 
lived  for  days  in  the  early  autumn,  of  a  cuff  in  a 
box  buried  in  the  ground  beneath  the  planking. 
For  weeks,  he  said,  he  had  vainly  tried  to  solve 
its  cipher,  stealing  away  from  the  farm  by  night 
to  pore  over  it  by  the  light  of  a  candle.  It  was 
fearfully  intricate  — 

"But  you — you  that  know  all,"  he  gasped 
painfully,  "you  will  get  it  and  read  and  tell 
me—" 


218        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Moaning  he  fell  back  in  his  chair. 

Carl  rang  for  Mrs.  Carmody.  It  was  young 
Mary,  however,  who  answered,  her  round  blue 
eyes  lingering  in  mystification  upon  the  fire  Carl 
had  built  in  the  deserted  wing. 

"Mary,"  said  Carl  carelessly,  "you'd  better 
phone  for  a  doctor  and  a  nurse.  Kronberg  has 
returned  and  I  fear  he's  in  for  a  spell  of  pneu 
monia." 

Later  in  the  Sherrill  hut,  Carl  ripped  a  board 
from  the  floor  and  found  in  the  dirt  beneath,  a 
box  containing  a  soiled  cuff  covered  with  an  in 
tricate  cipher. 

"Odd!"  said  he  with  a  curious  smile  as  he 
dropped  the  cuff  into  his  pocket;  "it's  very  odd 
about  that  paper." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  PINE- WOOD  SPARROW 

WITH  the  dawn  a  laggard  breeze  came 
winging  drowsily  in  from  the  southern 
sea,  the  first  thing  astir  in  the  spectral  world  of 
palm  and  villa.  Warm  and  deliciously  fragrant, 
it  swept  the  stiff  wet  Bermuda  grass  upon  the 
lawn  of  the  Sherrill  villa  at  Palm  Beach,  rustled 
the  crimson  hedge  of  hibiscus,  caught  the  subtle 
perfume  of  jasmine  and  oleander  and  swept  on 
to  a  purple-flowered  vine  on  the  white  walls  of 
the  villa,  a  fuller,  richer  thing  for  the  ghost- 
scent  of  countless  flowers. 

Into  this  gray-white  world  of  glimmering  co- 
quina  and  dew-wet  palm  rode  presently  the  slim, 
brisk  figure  of  a  girl  astride  a  fretful  horse.  A 
royal  palm  dripped  cool  gray  rain  upon  her  as 
she  galloped  past  to  the  shell-road  looming  out 
of  the  velvet  stillness  ahead  like  a  dim,  white 
ghost-trail. 

The  gray  ocean  murmured,  the  still  gray  la 
goon  was  asleep!  Here  and  there  a  haunting, 
elusive  splash  of  delicate  rose  upon  the  silver 
promised  the  later  color  of  a  wakening  world.  It 
was  a  finer,  quieter  world,  thought  Diane,  than 
the  later  day  world  of  white  hot  sunlight. 

219 


220        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

With  pulses  atune  to  the  morning's  freshness, 
the  girl  galloped  rapidly  along  the  shell-road, 
the  clattering  thud  of  her  horse's  hoofs  startling 
in  the  quiet.  As  yet  only  a  sleepy  bird  or  two 
had  begun  to  twitter.  There  was  a  growing  noise 
of  wind  in  the  grass  and  palms. 

A  century  back  it  seemed  to  this  girl  in  whom 
the  restless  gypsy  tide  was  subtly  fretting,  she 
had  left  Johnny  and  the  van  at  Jacksonville  to 
come  into  this  sensuous,  tropical  world  of  color, 
fashionable  life  and  lazy  days. 

Coloring  delicately,  the  metallic  gray  bosom  of 
the  lake  presently  foretold  the  sunrise  with  a 
primrose  glow.  When  at  length  the  glaring 
white  light  of  the  sun  struck  sparks  from  the  dew 
upon  the  pine  and  palmetto,  Diane  was  riding 
rapidly  south  in  quest  of  the  Florida  flat-woods. 
There  was  a  veritable  paradise  of  birds  in  the 
pine  barren,  Dick  Sherrill  had  said,  robins  and 
bluebirds,  flickers  and  woodpeckers  with  blazing 
cockades,  shrikes  and  chewinks. 

It  was  an  endless  monotony  of  pine  trees,  viv 
idly  green  and  far  apart,  into  which  Diane  pres 
ently  rode.  A  buzzard  floated  with  uptilted 
wings  above  the  sparse  woodland  to  the  west.  A 
gorgeous  butterfly,  silver-spangled,  winged  its 
way  over  the  saw  palmetto  and  sedge  between 
the  trees  to  an  inviting  glade  beyond,  cleft  by  a 
shallow  stream.  Swamp,  jungle,  pine  and  pal- 


The  Song  of  the  Sparrow       221 

metto  were  vocal  with  the  melody  of  many  birds. 

Diane  reined  in  her  horse  with  a  thrill.  This 
was  Florida,  at  last,  not  the  unreal,  exotic  bril 
liance  of  Palm  Beach.  Here  was  her  father's 
beloved  Flowerland  which  she  had  loved  as  a 
child.  Here  were  pines  and  tall  grass,  sun-sil 
vered,  bending  in  the  warm  wind,  and  the  song 
of  a  pine- wood  sparrow! 

From  the  scrub  ahead  came  his  quiet  song,  in 
finitely  sweet,  infinitely  plaintive  like  the  faint, 
soft  echo  of  a  fairy's  dream.  A  long  note  and 
a  shower  of  silver-sweet  echoes,  so  it  ran,  the 
invisible  singer  seeming  to  sing  for  himself  alone. 
So  might  elfin  bells  have  pealed  from  a  thicket, 
inexpressibly  low  and  tender. 

Diane  sat  motionless,  the  free,  wild  grace  of 
her  seeming  a  part  of  the  primeval  quiet.  For 
somehow,  by  some  twist  of  singer's  magic,  this 
Florida  bird  was  singing  of  Connecticut  wind 
and  river,  of  dogwood  on  a  ridge,  of  water  lilies 
in  the  purple  of  a  summer  twilight,  of  a  spot 
named  forever  in  her  mind — Arcadia. 

Now  as  the  girl  listened,  a  beautiful  brown 
sprite  of  the  rustling  pine  wood  about  her,  a  great 
flood  of  color  crept  suddenly  from  the  brown  full 
throat  to  the  line  of  her  hair,  and  the  scarlet  that 
lingered  in  her  cheeks  was  wilder  than  the  red  of 
winter  holly. 

Surely  —  surely  there  was   no  reason  under 


222        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Heaven  why  the  little  bird  should  sing  about  a 
hay-camp ! 

But  sing  of  it  he  did  with  a  swelling  throat  and 
a  melodic  quiver  of  nerve  and  sinew,  and  a  curious 
dialogue  followed. 

"A  hay-camp  is  a  very  foolish  thing,  to  be 
sure!"  sang  the  bird  with  a  dulcet  shower  of 
plaintive  notes. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  the  voice  of  the  girl's  con 
science,  "to  be  sure  it  is.  But  how  very  like 
him!" 

"But— but  there  was  the  bullet—" 

"  I  have  often  thought  of  it,"  owned  the  Voice. 

"A  gallant  gentleman  must  see  that  his  lady 
comes  to  no  harm.  'Tis  the  way  of  gallant  gen 
tlemen — 

"Hum!" 

"And  he  never  once  spoke  of  his  discomfort 
on  the  long  hot  road,  though  a  hay-camp  is  sub 
ject  to  most  singular  mishaps." 

"I  —  I  have  often  marveled." 

"He  is  brave  and  sturdy  and  of  charming 
humor — " 

"  A  superlative  grain  of  humor  perhaps,  and 
he's  very  lazy  —  " 

"And  fine  and  frank  and  honorable.  One 
may  not  forget  Arcadia  and  the  rake  of  twigs." 

"  One  may  not  forget,  that  is  very  true.  But 
he  seeks  to  make  himself  out  such  a  very  great 
fool  —  " 


The  Song  of  the  Sparrow       223 

"He  cloaks  each  generous  instinct  with  a 
laughing  drollery.  Why  did  you  hum  when  you 
cooked  his  supper  and  called  to  him  through  the 
trees?" 

"I  — I  do  not  know." 

"Twas  the  world-old  instinct  of  primitive 
woman!" 

"  No!  No!  No!  It  was  only  because  I  was  liv 
ing  the  life  I  love  the  best.  I  was  very  happy." 

"Why  were  you  happier  after  the  storm?" 

"I  — I  do  not  know." 

"  You  have  scolded  with  flashing  eyes  about 
the  hay-camp  —  " 

"But — I  —  I  did  not  mind.  I  tried  to  mind 
and  could  not — " 

"  That  is  a  very  singular  thing." 

"Yes." 

!<  Why  have  you  not  told  him  of  the  tall  senti 
nel  you  have  furtively  watched  of  moonlit  nights 
among  the  trees,  a  sentinel  who  slept  by  day 
upon  a  ridiculous  bed  of  hay  that  he  might  smoke 
and  watch  over  the  camp  of  his  lady  until  peep 
o'  day?" 

"I  — do  not  know." 

"You  are  sighing  even  now  for  the  van  and 
a  camp  fire  —  for  the  hay-camp  through  the 
trees  —  " 

"  No ! "  with  a  very  definite  flash  of  perversity. 


224        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  Where  is  this  persistent  young  nomad  of  the 
hay-camp  anyway?" 

"I  —  I  have  wondered  myself." 

But  with  a  quiver  of  impatience  the  horse  had 
pawed  the  ground  and  the  tiny  bird  flew  off  to  a 
distant  clump  of  palmetto. 

Diane  rode  hurriedly  off  into  the  flat-woods. 


White  girl  and  Indian  maid  then  clatped  hands. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  NOMAD  OF  THE  FIBE- WHEEL 

IT  HAD  been  an  unforgettable  day,  this  day  in 
the  pine  woods.  Diane  had  forded  shallow 
streams  and  followed  bright-winged  birds, 
lunched  by  a  silver  lake  set  coolly  in  the  darkling 
shade  of  cypress  and  found  a  curious  nest  in  the 
stump  of  a  tree.  Now  with  a  mass  of  creeping 
blackberry  and  violets  strapped  to  her  saddle  she 
was  riding  slowly  back  through  the  pine  woods. 

Though  the  sun,  which  awhile  back  had  filled 
the  hollow  of  palmetto  fronds  with  a  ruddy  pool 
of  light,  had  long  since  dropped  behind  the  hori 
zon,  the  girl  somehow  picked  the  homeward  trail 
with  the  unerring  instinct  of  a  wild  thing.  That 
one  may  be  hopelessly  lost  in  the  deceptive  flat- 
woods  she  dismissed  with  a  laugh.  The  wood  is 
kind  to  wild  things. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  through  the  trees  ahead 
she  caught  the  curious  glimmer  of  a  cart  wheel 
of  flame  upon  the  ground,  hub  and  spokes  glow 
ing  vividly  in  the  center  of  a  clearing.  Curiously 
the  girl  rode  toward  it,  unaware  that  the  pictur 
esque  fire-wheel  ahead  was  the  typical  camp  fire 
of  the  southern  Indian,  or  that  the  strange  wild 
figure  squatting  gravely  by  the  fire  in  lonely  sil- 

225 


226        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

houette  against  the  white  of  a  canvas-covered 
wagon  beyond  in  the  trees,  was  a  vagrant  Semi- 
nole  from  the  proud  old  turbaned  tribe  who  still 
dwell  in  the  inaccessible  morasses  of  the  Ever 
glades. 

The  realization  came  in  a  disturbed  flash  of 
interest  and  curiosity.  Though  the  Florida  In 
dian  harmed  no  one,  he  still  considered  himself 
proudly  hostile  to  the  white  man.  Wherefore 
Diane  wisely  wheeled  her  horse  about  to  retreat. 

It  was  too  late.  Already  the  young  Seminole 
was  upon  his  feet,  keen  of  vision  and  hearing 
for  all  he  seemed  but  a  tense,  still  statue  in  the 
wildwood. 

Accepting  the  situation  with  good  grace, 
Diane  rode  fearlessly  toward  his  fire  and  reined 
in  her  horse.  But  the  ready  word  of  greeti  ng  froze 
upon  her  lips.  For  the  nomad  of  the  fire-wheel 
was  a  girl,  tall  and  slender,  barbarically  arrayed 
in  the  holiday  garb  of  a  Seminole  chief.  The  fire 
light  danced  upon  the  beaten  band  of  silver  about 
her  brilliant  turban  and  the  beads  upon  her  sash, 
upon  red-beaded  deerskin  leggings  delicately 
thonged  from  the  supple  waist  to  the  small  and 
moccasined  foot,  upon  a  tunic  elaborately  banded 
in  red  and  a  belt  of  buckskin  from  which  hung 
a  hunting  knife,  a  revolver  and  an  ammunition 
pouch. 

But  Diane's  fascinated  gaze  lingered  longest 


The  Nomad  of  the  Fire  -Wheel  227 

upon  the  Indian  girl's  face.  Her  smooth,  vivid 
skin  was  nearer  the  hue  of  the  sun-dark  Cau 
casian  than  of  the  red  man,  and  lovelier  than 
either,  with  grave,  vigilant  eyes  of  dusk,  a 
straight,  small  nose  and  firm,  proud  mouth  viv 
idly  scarlet  like  the  wild  flame  in  her  cheeks. 

Aloof,  impassive,  the  Indian  girl  stared  back. 

"  I  wish  well  to  the  beautiful  daughter  of  white 
men ! "  she  said  at  length  with  native  dignity.  The 
contralto  of  her  voice  was  full  and  rich  and  very 
musical,  her  English,  deliberate  and  clear-cut. 

Immensety  relieved  —  for  the  keen  glance  of 
those  dark  Indian  eyes  had  suddenly  softened  — 
Diane  leaped  impetuously  from  her  horse ;  across 
the  fire  white  girl  and  Indian  maid  clasped  hands. 

"Do  forgive  me!"  she  exclaimed  warmly. 
"  But  I  saw  your  fire  and  turned  this  way  before 
I  really  knew  what  I  was  doing."  Just  as  Diane 
won  the  confidence  of  every  wild  thing  in  the  for 
est,  so  now  with  her  winsome  grace  and  unaf 
fected  warmth,  she  won  the  Indian  girl. 

Some  subtle,  nameless  sympathy  of  the  forest 
leaped  like  a  spark  from  eye  to  eye — then  with 
a  slow,  grave  smile  in  which  there  was  much  less 
reserve,  the  Seminole  motioned  her  guest  to  a 
seat  by  the  fire. 

Nothing  loath,  Diane  promptly  tethered  her 
horse  and  squatted  Indian  fashion  by  the  cart- 


228        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

wheel  fire,  immensely  thrilled  and  diverted  by 
her  picturesque  adventure. 

"My  name,"  she  offered  presently  with  her 
ready  smile,  "  is  Diane." 

"Di-ane,"  said  the  Indian  girl  majestically. 
And  added  naively,  "  She  was  the  Roman  god 
dess  of  light  —  and  of  hunting,  is  it  not  so? " 

Diane  looked  very  blank. 

"Where  in  the  world — "  she  stammered,  star 
ing,  and  colored. 

The  Indian  girl  smiled. 

"  From  so  high,"  she  said  shyly,  "  I  have  been 
taught  by  Mic-co.  Like  the  white  student  of 
books,  I  know  many  curious  things  that  he  has 
taught  me." 

"And  your  name?"  asked  Diane,  heroically 
mastering  her  mystified  confusion.  "May  I  — 
may  I  not  know  that  too? " 

"  Shock-kil-law,"  came  the  ready  reply. 

"That  readily  becomes  Keela!"  exclaimed 
Diane  smiling. 

The  girl  nodded. 

"  So  Mic-co  has  said.  And  so  indeed  he  calls 
me." 

"  Tell  me,  Keela,  what  does  it  mean  ? " 

"Red-winged  blackbird,"  said  Keela. 

It  was  eminently  fitting,  thought  Diane,  and 
glanced  at  Keela's  hair  and  cheeks. 

There  was  a  wild  duck  roasting  in  the  hub  of 


The  Nomad  of  the  Fire  -Wheel  229 

coals  —  from  the  burning  spokes  came  the  smell 
of  cedar.  The  Indian  girl  majestically  broke  a 
segment  of  koonti  bread  and  proffered  it  to  her 
companion.  With  faultless  courtesy  Diane  ac 
cepted  and  presently  partook  with  healthy  relish 
of  a  supper  of  duck  and  sweet  potatoes. 

The  silence  of  the  Indian  girl  was  utterly  with 
out  constraint. 

"I  wonder,"  begged  Diane  impetuously,  "if 
you'll  tell  me  who  Mic-co  is  ?  I'm  greatly  inter 
ested.  He  taught  you  about  Rome?" 

Nodding,  the  Indian  girl  said  in  her  quaint,  de 
liberate  English  that  Mic-co  was  her  white  foster 
father.  The  Seminoles  called  him  Es-ta-chat- 
tee-mic-co  —  chief  of  the  White  Race.  Most  of 
them  called  him  simply  Mic-co.  He  was  a  great 
and  good  medicine  man  of  much  wisdom  who 
dwelt  upon  a  fertile  chain  of  swamp  islands  in 
the  Everglades.  The  Indians  loved  him. 

Still  puzzled,  Diane  diffidently  ventured  a 
question  or  two,  marveling  afresh  at  the  girl's 
beauty  and  singular  costume. 

"  I  am  of  no  race,"  said  Keela  sombrely.  "  My 
father  was  a  white  man;  my  mother  not  all  In 
dian;  my  grandfather — a  Minorcan.  Six  moons 
I  live  with  my  white  foster  father.  And  I  live 
then  as  I  wish — like  the  daughter  of  white 
men.  Six  moons  I  dwell  with  the  clan  of  my 
mother.  Such  is  my  life  since  the  old  chief  made 


230        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

the  compact  with  Mic-co.  Come!"  she  added 
and  led  the  way  to  the  Indian  wagon. 

"When  the  night-winds  call,"  she  said  wist 
fully,  "I  grow  restless  —  for  I  am  happiest  in 
the  lodge  of  Mic-co.  Then  the  old  chief  bids 
me  travel  to  the  world  of  white  men  and  sell." 
There  was  gentle  pathos  in  her  mellow  voice. 

Pieces  of  ancient  pottery,  quaint  bleached  bits 
of  skeleton,  beads  and  shells  and  trinkets  of  gold 
unearthed  from  the  Florida  sand  mounds,  moc 
casins  and  baskets,  koonti  starch  and  plumes,  such 
were  the  picturesque  wares  which  Keela  peddled 
when  the  stir  of  her  mingled  blood  drove  her 
forth  from  the  camp  of  her  forbears. 

Diane  bought  generously,  harnessed  her  saddle 
with  clanking  relics  and  regretfully  mounted  her 
horse. 

"Let  me  come  again  to-morrow!"  she  begged. 

"Uncah!"  granted  the  girl  in  Seminole  and 
her  great  black  eyes  were  very  friendly. 

Looking  back  as  she  rode  through  the  flat- 
woods,  Diane  marveled  afresh.  It  was  a  far 
cry  indeed  from  the  camp  of  a  Seminole  to  the 
legends  of  Rome. 

But  the  primeval  flavor  of  the  night  presently 
dissolved  in  the  glare  of  acetylenes  from  a  long 
gray  car  standing  motionless  by  the  roadside 
ahead.  The  climbing  moon  shone  full  upon  the 


The  Nomad  of  the  Fire  -Wheel  231 

face  of  a  bareheaded  motorist  idly  smoking  a  cig 
arette  and  waiting. 

Diane  reined  in  her  horse  with  a  jerk  and  a 
clank  of  relics. 

"  Philip  Poynter!"  she  exclaimed. 

The  driver  laughed. 

"I  wonder,"  said  he,  "if  you  know  what  a 
shock  you've  thrown  into  your  aunt  by  staying 
out  in  the  flat- woods  until  dark.  She  once  knew 
a  man  who  lost  himself.  Incidentally  they  are 
mighty  deceptive  to  wander  about  in.  The  trees 
are  so  far  apart  that  one  never  seems  to  get  into 
them.  And  then,  having  meanwhile  effectively 
got  in  without  knowing  it,  one  never  seems  to 
get  out." 

"  Where,"  demanded  Diane  indignantly,  "  did 
you  come  from  anyway?" 

"  If  you  hadn't  been  so  ambitious,"  Philip  as 
sured  her  with  mild  resentment,  "  you'd  have  seen 
me  at  breakfast.  I  arrived  at  Sherrill's  last 
night.  As  it  is,  I've  been  sitting  here  an  hour  or 
so  watching  you  swap  wildwood  yarns  with  the 
aborigine  yonder.  And  Ann  Sherrill  sent  me 
after  you  in  Dick's  speediest  car.  Ho,  uncle! " 

An  aged  negro  appeared  from  certain  shadows 
to  which  Philip  had  lazily  consigned  him. 

"Uncle,"  said  Philip  easily,  "will  ride  your 
horse  back  to  Sherrill's  for  you.  I  picked  him 
up  on  the  road.  You'll  motor  back  with  me?" 


282        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Diane  certainly  would  not. 

"  Then,"  regretted  Philip,  "  I'm  reduced  to  the 
painful  and  spectacular  expedient  of  just  graz 
ing  the  heels  of  your  fiery  steed  with  Dick's  racer 
all  the  way  back  to  Sherrill's  and  matching  up  his 
hoof-beats  on  the  shell-road  with  a  devil's  tattoo 
on  the  horn." 

Greatly  vexed,  Diane  resigned  her  horse  to  the 
waiting  negro,  who  rode  off  into  the  moonlight 
with  a  noisy  clank.  Mr.  Poynter's  face  was 
radiant. 

"  And  after  running  the  chance  of  a  night  in 
the  pine  barrens,"  he  mused  admiringly,  "you 
amble  out  of  the  danger  zone  in  the  most  matter- 
of-fact  manner  with  your  saddle  clanking  like  a 
bone-yard.  I  don't  wonder  your  aunt  fusses. 
What  made  the  racket  ? " 

"Bones  and  shells  and  things." 

"Well,  for  such  absolute  irresponsibility  as 
you've  developed  since  you've  been  out  of  the 
chastening  jurisdiction  of  the  hay-camp,  I'd  re 
spectfully  suggest  that  you  marry  the  very  first 
bare-headed  motorist,  smoking  a  cigarette,  whom 
you  happened  to  see  as  you  rode  out  of  the  pine- 
woods." 

"Philip,"     said     Diane     disdainfully,     "the 


moon  —  " 


"  Is  on  my  head  again,"  admitted  Philip.    "  I 
know.    It  always  gets  me.    We'd  better  motor 


The  Nomad  of  the  Fire  -Wheel  233 

around  a  bit  and  clear  my  brain  out.  I'd  hate 
awfully  to  have  the  Sherrills  think  I'm  in  love." 

Almost  anything  one  could  say,  reflected  Diane 
uncomfortably,  inspired  Philip's  brain  to  fresh 
fertility. 

The  camp  of  Keela,  domiciled  indefinitely  in 
the  flat-woods  to  sell  to  winter  tourists,  proved 
a  welcome  outlet  for  the  fretting  gypsy  tide  in 
Diane's  veins.  She  found  the  Indian  girl's  mag 
netism  irresistible. 

Proud,  unerringly  truthful,  fastidious  in  speech 
and  persona]  habit,  truly  majestic  and  generous, 
such  was  the  shy  woodland  companion  with  whom 
Diane  chose  willfully  to  spend  her  idle  hours, 
finding  the  girl's  unconstrained  intervals  of 
silence,  her  flashes  of  Indian  keenness,  her  inborn 
reticence  and  naive  parade  of  the  wealth  of 
knowledge  Mic-co  had  taught  her,  a  most  be 
wildering  book  in  which  there  was  daily  some 
thing  new  to  read. 

There  was  a  keen,  quick  brain  behind  the  dark 
and  lovely  eyes,  a  faultless  knowledge  of  the 
courtesies  of  finer  folk.  Mic-co  had  wrought  gen 
erously  and  well.  Only  the  girl's  inordinate  shy 
ness  and  the  stern  traditions  of  her  tribe,  Diane 
fancied,  kept  her  chained  to  her  life  in  the  Glades. 

Keela,  strangely  apart  from  Indian  and  white 
man,  and  granted  unconventional  license  by  her 


234        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

tribe,  hungered  most  for  the  ways  of  the  white 
father  of  whom  she  frequently  spoke. 

Diane  learned  smoke  signals  and  the  blazing 
and  blinding  of  a  trail,  an  inexhaustible  and 
tragic  fund  of  tribal  history  which  had  been 
handed  down  from  mouth  to  mouth  for  genera 
tions,  legends  and  songs,  wailing  dirges  and  na 
tive  dances  and  snatches  of  the  chaste  and  oath- 
less  speech  of  the  Florida  Indian. 

"Diane,  dear!"  exclaimed  Ann  Sherrill  one 
lazy  morning,  "  what  in  the  world  is  that  exceed 
ingly  mournful  tune  you're  humming?" 

"That,"  said  Diane,  "is  the  'Song  of  the 
Great  Horned  Owl,'  my  clever  little  Indian 
friend  taught  me.  Isn't  it  plaintive?" 

"  It  is ! "  said  Ann  with  deep  conviction.  "  En 
tirely  too  much  so.  I  feel  creepy.  And  Nathalie 
says  you  did  some  picturesque  dance  for  her  and 
your  aunt  — 

"  The  '  Dance  of  the  Wild  Turkey,' "  explained 
Diane,  much  amused  at  the  recollection.  "  Aunt 
Agatha  insisted  that  it  was  some  iniquitous  and 
cunningly  disguised  Seminole  species  of  turkey 
trot.  She  was  horribly  shocked  and  grew  white 
as  a  ghost  at  my  daring — " 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  Ann  Sherrill.  "She 
ought  to  have  all  the  shock  out  of  her  by  now 
after  bringing  up  you  and  Carl!  I'm  going  to 
ride  out  to  the  flat- woods  with  you,  for  I'm  simply 


The  Nomad  of  the  Fire  -Wheel  235 

dying  for  a  new  sensation.  Dick's  as  stupid  as 
an  owl.  He  does  nothing  but  hang  around  the 
Beach  Club.  And  Philip  Poynter's  tennis  mad. 
He  looks  hurt  if  you  ask  him  to  do  anything  else 
except  perhaps  to  trail  fatuously  after  you.  It's 
the  flat-woods  for  mine." 

Ann  returned  from  her  visit  to  the  Indian  camp 
scintillant  with  italics  and  enthusiasm. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "I'm  wild  about  her  — 
quite  wild!  .  .  .  I'm  going  again  and  again! 
.  .  .  If  I  knew  half  as  much  and  were  half 
as  lovely —  Why,  do  you  know,  Diane,  she  set 
me  right  about  some  ridiculous  quotation,  and  I 
never  try  to  get  them  straight,  for  half  the  time 
I  find  my  own  way  so  much  more  expressive. 
.  .  .  There's  Philip  Poynter  with  a  tennis 
racquet  again!  Diane,  I'm  losing  patience  with 
him." 

From  her  madcap  craving  for  new  sensation, 
Ann  was  destined  to  evolve  an  inspiration  which 
with  customary  energy  and  Diane's  interested 
connivance  she  swept  through  to  fruition,  una 
ware  that  Fate  marched,  leering,  at  her  heels. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  BLACK  PALMER 

URIOUS  things  may  happen  when  masked 
men  hold  revel  under  a  moonlit  sky. 

Thus  in  a  tropical  garden  of  palm  and  foun 
tain,  of  dark,  shifting  shadows  and  a  thousand 
softly  luminous  Chinese  lanterns  swaying  in  a 
breeze  of  spice,  a  Bedouin  talked  to  an  ancient 
Greek. 

"He  is  here?"  asked  the  Bedouin  with  an  ac 
cent  slightly  foreign. 

'Yes,"  said  the  Greek.  "He  is  here  and 
immensely  relieved,  I  take  it,  to  be  rid  of  the 
jurisdiction  of  the  hay-camp." 

"  I  fancied  he  would  not  dare  — 

"  A  man  in  love,"  commented  the  Greek  dryly, 
"  dares  much  for  the  sake  of  his  lady.  One  may 
conceivably  lack  discretion  without  forfeiting  his 
claim  to  courage." 

"  The  disguise  of  his  stained  and  shaven  face," 
hinted  the  Bedouin  grimly,  "  has  made  him  over 
confident.  Having  tested  it  with  apparent  suc 
cess  upon  you — ' 

"  Even  so.  But  he  has  forgotten  that  few  men 
have  such  striking  eyes." 

"  If  he  has  taken  the  pains  to  assure  himself 


The  Black  Palmer  237 

of  my  whereabouts,"  rumbled  the  Bedouin,  "  as 
he  surely  has,  I  am  of  course  still  blistering  in 
extreme  southern  Florida,  hunting  tarpon.  I 
have  a  permanent  Washington  address  which  I 
have  taken  pains  to  notify  of  my  interest  in  tar 
pon  and  to  which  he  writes.  These  incognito 
days,"  added  the  Bedouin  with  a  slight  smile, "  my 
cipher  communications  cross  an  ocean  and  re 
turn  immediately  by  trusted  hands  to  America, 
though  I,  of  course,  know  nothing  of  it.  Those 
from  my  charming  minstrel  to  me — make  similar 
tours." 

"And  I?" 

'You — my  secretary — having  spent  a  few 
days  with  the  Sherrills  on  your  way  to  join  me 
after  months  of  frivoling  with  a  hay-camp,  have 
been  forced  by  telegram  to  depart  before  the 
fete  de  nuit  to  which  Miss  Sherrill  begged  our 
attendance.  Rest  assured  he  knows  that  too. 
Therefore,  to  unmask  unobtrusively  and  slip 
away  to  his  room,  and  in  the  absence  of  other 
guests  to  linger  for  a  week  of  incognito  quiet  — 
voila!  he  is  quite  safe  though  imprudent  I " 

Greek  and  Bedouin  fell  silent,  watching  the 
laughing  pageant  in  the  garden. 

Venetian  lamps  glowed  like  yellow  witch-lights 
in  the  branches;  fountains  tossed  moon-bright 
sprays  of  quicksilver  aloft  and  tinkled  witk  the 
splash;  the  waters  of  a  sunken  pool,  jeweled  in 


238        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

stars,  glimmered  darkly  green  through  files  of 
cypress.  All  in  all,  an  entrancing  moon-mad 
world  of  mystery  and  dusk-moths,  heavy  with  the 
scent  of  jasmine  and  orange.  And  the  moon 
played  brightly  on  curious  folk,  on  spangles  and 
jewels  and  masked  and  laughing  eyes. 

A  gray  mendicant  monk  with  sombre,  thin- 
lipped  face  beneath  a  grayish  mask  slipped  fur 
tively  by  with  a  curious  air  of  listening  intently 
to  the  careless  chatter  about  him;  a  fat  and  plain 
tive  Queen  Elizabeth  followed,  talking  to  a  stout 
courtier  who  was  over-trusting  the  seams  of  his 
satin  breeches. 

"  I  doubt  if  you'll  believe  me,"  puffed  Queen 
Elizabeth  dolorously,  "but  every  day  since  that 
time  she  deliberately  went  out  and  lost  herself  all 
day  in  the  flat-woods  and  stopped  to  look  at  that 
ridiculous  cart  with  the  wheel  of  flame  when  I 
was  sure  a  buzzard  had  bitten  her  —  No !  No !  I 
don't  know,  Jethro;  I'm  sure  I  don't.  How 
should  I  know  why  it  was  burning?  But  it  was. 
She  said  plainly  that  it  was  a  cart  wheel  of  fire 
and  if  it  was  a  wheel  it  must  certainly  have  been 
on  something  and  what  on  earth  would  a  wheel 
be  on  but  a  cart?  Certainly  one  wouldn't  buy  a 
bale  of  cart  wheels  to  make  fires  in  the  flat-woods. 
Well,  it's  the  strangest  thing,  Jethro,  but  nearly 
every  day  since,  she's  visited  the  flat-woods  and 
wandered  about  with  that  terrible  Indian  girl  who 


The  Black  Palmer  239 

isn't  an  Indian  girl.  Seems  that  she's  a  most 
extraordinary  girl  with  a  foster-father  and  she 
sells  sand  mounds  —  no,  that's  not  it  —  the  things 
they  find  in  them  besides  the  sand  —  and  she  has 
a  queer,  wild  sort  of  culture  and  her  father  was 
white.  Like  as  not  Diane  will  come  home  some 
night  scalped  and  she  has  such  magnificent  hair, 
Jethro.  To  her  knees  it  is  and  so  black!  And 
what  must  she  and  Ann  do  to-night  but  —  there, 
I  promised  Diane  faithfully  to  keep  it  a  secret, 
for  they've  been  working  for  days  and  days  and 
she  is  distractingly  lovely.  With  the  Sherrill  to 
pazes  too.  And  now  that  she's  sold  all  the  sand 
mounds,  or  whatever  it  is,  do  you  know,  Jethro, 
she's  going  to  drive  Diane  north  to  Jacksonville 
in  the  Indian  wagon.  They  start  to-morrow 
morning.  I  think  it's  because  they're  both  so  mad 
about  trees  and  things  —  I  can't  for  the  life  of 
me  make  it  out.  Jethro,  Diane  will  drive  me  mad 
—  she  will  indeed.  Well,  all  I  can  say,  Jethro, 
is  that  if  you  don't  know  what  I'm  talking  about 
you  must  be  very  stupid  to-night.  No!  No!  do 
I  ever  know,  Jethro?  He  may  be  here  and  he 
may  not.  He  may  be  off  in  Egypt  shooting 
scarabs  by  now.  He  was  at  the  farm  when  he 
wrote  to  me  in  Indiana.  Well,  collecting  scarabs, 
then,  Jethro.  Why  do  you  fuss  so  about  little 
things  ?  Isn't  it  funny  —  strangest  thing ! " 


240       Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Queen  Elizabeth  passed  on  with  her  aged 
dandy. 

A  dark  figure  by  the  cypress  pool  laughed  and 
shrugged.  He  was  a  singular  figure,  this  man  by 
the  pool,  with  a  hint  of  the  Orient  in  his  garb. 
His  robe  was  of  black,  with  startling  and  unex 
pected  flashes  of  scarlet  lining  when  he  walked. 
Black  chains  clanked  drearily  about  his  waist  and 
wrists.  There  was  a  cunningly  concealed  light  in 
his  filmy  turban  which  gave  it  the  singular  appear 
ance  of  a  dark  cloud  lighted  by  an  inner  fire.  As 
he  wandered  about  with  clanking  chains,  he 
played  strange  music  upon  a  polished  thing  of 
hollow  bones.  Sometimes  the  music  laughed  and 
wooed  when  eyes  were  kind ;  sometimes  when  eyes 
were  over-daring  it  was  subtly  impudent  and  elo 
quent.  Sometimes  it  was  so  unspeakably  weird 
and  melancholy  that  along  with  the  clanking 
chains  and  the  strangely  luminous  turban,  many 
a  careless  stroller  turned  and  stared.  So  did  a 
slender,  turbaned  Seminole  chief  with  a  minstrel 
at  his  heels. 

It  was  upon  this  picturesque  young  Seminole 
that  the  eyes  of  the  Greek  by  the  hibiscus  lingered 
longest,  but  the  eyes  of  the  Bedouin  scanned 
every  line  of  the  minstrel's  ragged  corduroy  with 
grim  amusement. 

"A  romantic  garb,  by  Allah!"  said  the  Bed 
ouin  dryly. 


The  Black  Palmer  241 

"It  has  served  its  purpose,"  reminded  the 
Greek  sombrely.  And  laughed  with  relish. 

For  the  Seminole  chief  had  fled  perversely 
through  the  lantern-lit  trees,  her  soft,  mocking 
laughter  proclaiming  her  sex  and  her  mood. 

"And  still  he  follows!"  boomed  the  Bedouin. 
"  With  or  without  the  music-machine,  he  is  con 
sistently  fatuous." 

The  man  with  the  luminous  turban  spoke  sud 
denly  to  a  girl  in  trailing  satin  with  a  muff  of 
flowers  in  her  hand.  Shoulders  and  throat 
gleamed  superbly  above  the  line  of  golden  satin; 
there  were  flashing  topazes  in  her  hair  and  about 
her  throat;  and  the  slender,  arched  foot  in  the 
satin  slipper  was  small  and  finely  moulded. 

"Tell  me,"  he  begged  insistently,  "who  you 
are !  You've  grace  and  poise  enough  for  a  dozen 
women.  And  who  taught  you  how  to  walk  ?  Few 
women  know  how." 

The  girl,  with  a  delicate  air  of  hauteur,  flung 
back  her  head  imperiously  and  turned  away. 

"  And  you've  wonderful  eyes  —  black  and  wist 
ful  and  tragic  and  beautiful ! "  persisted  the  man 
impudently.  "Wonderful,  sparkling  lady  of 
gold  and  black,  tell  me  who  you  are ! " 

"Who,"  said  the  girl  gravely  in  a  clear,  rich 
contralto,  "who  are  you?" 

The  man  laughed  but  his  eyes  lingered  on  the 
firm,  proud  scarlet  lips  and  the  small  even  teeth. 


242        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"Call  me  the  'Black  Palmer,'"  said  he. 
"  There's  a  tremendous  significance  in  my  rig  to 
be  sure,  but  it's  only  for  one  man." 

"  What,"  asked  the  girl  seriously,  "  is  a 
palmer?" 

Mystified  the  Black  Palmer  stared. 

'  You  honestly  mean  that  you  don't  know? " 

"  I  speak  ever  the  truth,"  said  the  proud  scarlet 
lips  below  the  golden  mask.  "When  I  ask,  I 
mean  that  I  do  not  know." 

"  And  this  in  a  world  of  sophistication ! "  mur 
mured  the  man  blankly,  but  the  girl  was  moving 
off  with  graceful  majesty  through  the  trees,  the 
jewels  in  her  hair  alive  in  the  lantern-lit  dusk. 
The  Black  Palmer  sprang  after  her. 

"Tell  me,  I  beg  of  you,"  he  exclaimed 
earnestly,  "you  who  are  so  grave  and  beautiful 
and  apart  from  this  world  of  mine,  like  a  fresh 
keen  wind  in  a  scorching  desert,  in  Heaven's  name 
tell  me  who  you  are ! " 

But  the  girl's  dark,  fine  eyes  flashed  quick  re 
buke. 

Nothing  daunted  the  Black  Palmer  impu 
dently  stripped  the  golden  mask  from  her  face. 
The  soft  yellow  light  of  the  Venetian  lamp  in 
the  tree  above  her  fell  full  upon  the  lovely  oval 
of  a  face  so  peculiar  in  its  striking  beauty  of 
line  and  vivid  coloring  that  he  fell  back  staring. 


The  Black  Palmer  243 

"  Lord,  what  a  face! "  exclaimed  the  Greek,  too 
taken  aback  to  resent  the  Palmer's  insolence. 

And  the  Bedouin  rumbled :  "  Exquisite !  But 
she  is  not  of  your  land.  Italian,  Spanish,  or 
some  bizarre  mingling  of  strange  races,  but  none 
of  your  colder  lands ! " 

Now  as  the  Black  Palmer  stared  at  the  dark, 
accusing  eyes  of  the  girl,  a  singular  thing  oc 
curred.  His  cloak  of  impudence  fell  suddenly 
from  his  shoulders  and  returning  the  golden  mask, 
he  bowed  and  begged  her  pardon  with  unmistak 
able  deference. 

"Let  a  humbled  Palmer,"  he  said  quietly, 
"  pay  his  sincerest  homage  to  the  most  beautiful 
woman  he  has  even  seen."  And  as  the  girl  moved 
proudly  away,  the  strain  of  fantastic  music  which 
followed  her  was  subtly  deferential. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE   UNMASKING 

AT  MIDNIGHT  a  mellow  chime  rang  some 
where  by  the  cypress  pool.  Laughing  and 
jesting,  calling  to  one  another,  the  masked  crowd 
moved  off  to  the  vine-hung  villa  ahead,  gleaming 
moon-white  through  the  shrubbery. 

Somewhat  reluctantly  the  minstrel  followed. 
It  had  been  his  intention  to  unmask  in  some  se 
cluded  corner  whence,  presently,  he  might  slip 
away  to  his  room,  but  finding  himself  jostled  and 
pushed  on  by  a  Greek  and  a  Bedouin  who,  to  do 
them  justice,  seemed  quite  unaware  of  their  im 
portunities,  he  surrendered  to  the  press  about  him 
and  presently  found  himself  in  an  unpleasantly 
conspicuous  spot  in  the  great  room  which  the 
Sherrills  occasionally  used  as  a  ballroom. 

All  about  him  girls  and  men  were  unmasking 
amid  a  shower  of  laughing  raillery.  That  the 
Seminole  chief  with  her  tunic  and  beaded  sash 
and  her  brilliant  turban  was  very  near  him,  was 
a  pleasant  and  altogether  accidental  mitigation  of 
his  mishap.  That  a  Greek  and  a  Bedouin  were 
just  behind  him  —  a  fact  not  in  the  least  acci 
dental —  and  that  a  gray  monk  was  slipping 
about  among  the  guests  whispering  to  receptive 

244 


The  Unmasking  245 

ears,  did  not  interest  him  in  the  least.  A  string 
orchestra  played  softly  in  an  alcove.  The  leader's 
eyes,  oddly  enough,  were  upon  the  ancient  Greek. 

Now  suddenly  a  curious  hush  swept  over  the 
room.  Uncomfortably  aware  that  he  was  a  spec 
tacular  object  of  interest  by  reason  of  his  mask 
and  that  every  unmasked  eye  was  full  upon  him, 
the  minstrel,  following  the  lines  of  least  re 
sistance,  removed  the  bit  of  cambric  from  his 
eyes.  After  all,  in  the  sea  of  faces  before  him, 
there  were  none  familiar. 

As  the  mask  dropped — the  ancient  Greek 
thoughtfully  adjusted  his  tunic. 

Instantly  without  pause  or  warning  the  soft 
strain  of  the  orchestra  swept  dramatically  into  a 
powerful  melody  of  measured  cadences.  It  was 
the  tune  Carl  had  played  upon  his  flute  to  Jokai 
of  Vienna  months  before.  The  minstrel,  mask 
in  hand,  stared  at  the  orchestra,  blanched  and  bit 
his  lip. 

"  God  bless  my  soul ! "  exclaimed  Queen  Eliza 
beth  to  Jethro,  "  it's  the  immigrant,  Jethro,  and 
there  he  was  on  the  lace  spread  with  his  feet  tied 
and  gurgling.  I'll  never  forget  his  eyes." 

"Jokai  of  Vienna!"  said  the  Black  Palmer, 
whistling.  "By  Jove,  they've  trapped  him 
nicely." 

For  an  uncomfortable  instant,  the  silence  con- 


246        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

tinned,  then  came  the  saving  stir  of  laughter  and 
chatting. 

The  Bedouin  with  an  unrelenting  air  of  dignity 
and  command,  removed  his  mask  and  bowed  low 
to  Diane  in  whose  startled  eyes  below  the  Semi- 
nole  turban  flashed  sympathy  and  acute  regret. 

"  Miss  Westfall,"  said  he  gravely,  "  permit  me 
to  present  to  you,  Prince  Ronador  of  Houdania." 

White  and  stern,  his  fine  eyes  flashing  im 
perially,  Ronador  bowed. 

"Rest  assured,  Miss  Westfall,"  he  said,  "that 
I  know  you  have  not  betrayed  my  confidence. 
Baron  Tregar  is  an  ardent  patriot  who  by  virtue 
of  his  office  must  needs  object  to  democratic  mas 
querading." 

The  Baron  stroked  his  beard. 

"  For  inspiring  the  musical  ceremony  due  your 
rank,  Prince,"  he  said  dryly,  "I  crave  indul 
gence." 

Smiling,  the  ancient  Greek  at  the  Baron's 
elbow  unmasked,  to  show  the  cheerful  face  of  Mr. 
Poynter. 

"  Prince,"  said  Mr.  Poynter,  "  I  sincerely  trust 
I  have  made  no  error  in  transcribing  the  Regent's 
Hymn  for  our  excellent  musicians.  Having 
heard  it  so  many  times  in  your  presence  in  Hou 
dania,  I  could  not  well  forget.  At  your  sen-ice," 
with  a  glance  at  his  Grecian  attire,  "  Herodotus, 
father  of  nomads ! " 


The  Unmasking  247 

But  Ann  Sherrill  in  the  gorgeous  raiment  of  a 
Semiramis  was  already  at  hand,  sparkling  italics 
upon  her  royal  guest,  and  Philip  moved  aside. 

"I  am  overwhelmed!"  whispered  Ann  a  little 
later.  "I  am  indeed!  I  was  not  in  the  least 
aware  that  our  mysterious  incognito  was  a  prince, 
were  you,  Diane?" 

'  Yes,"  said  Diane.  Her  color  was  very  high 
and  she  deliberately  avoided  the  imploring  eyes 
of  Mr.  Poynter. 

"What  in  the  world  is  it  all  about?"  begged 
Ann  helplessly.  "  And  who  was  the  grayish  monk 
who  flitted  about  so  mysteriously  telling  us  that 
the  minstrel  was  a  prince!  It  spread  like  wild 
fire.  As  for  you,  Philip  Poynter,  it's  exactly  like 
you!  To  depart  night  before  last  and  suddenly 
reappear  is  quite  of  a  piece  with  your  mysterious 
habit  of  fading  periodically  out  of  civilization. 
Baron  Tregar,  how  exceedingly  delightful  of  you 
to  come  this  way  and  surprise  me  when  I  fancied 
you  were  so  keen  about  those  horrid  tarpon  that 
you  wouldn't  leave  them  for  all  I  wrote  and 
wrote" 

There  was  a  sprightly  nervousness  in  Ann's 
manner.  She  was  uncomfortably  aware  of  a 
subtle  undercurrent. 

"And  I've  another  unexpected  guest,"  she 
added  to  Diane.  "Carl's  here.  Wandering  in 
from  Heaven  knows  where,  as  he  always  does. 
He's  making  his  peace  with  your  aunt  —  " 


248        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Herodotus,  who  had  been  trying  for  some  time 
to  get  into  friendly  communication  with  his  lady, 
suddenly  murmured  "Frost  in  Florida!"  with 
audible  regret  and  moved  off  good-humoredly 
to  look  for  Carl. 

He  found  that  young  man  listening  attentively 
to  his  aunt's  reproaches. 

"  And  that  costume,  Carl,"  fluttered  Queen 
Elizabeth  in  aggrieved  disapproval.  "  Why,  dear 
me,  it's  enough  to  make  a  body  shudder,  it's  so 
sort  of  sinister — it  is  indeed!  And  I  do  hope 
you  don't  set  your  hair  on  fire  with  that  extraor 
dinary  light  in  your  turban.  Is  it  a  candle  or  an 
electric  bulb?" 

"A  forty  horse  power  glowworm!"  Carl  as 
sured  her  gravely,  and  the  portly  Jethro  snig 
gered  to  the  danger  of  his  seams. 

Philip's  hand  came  down  heavily  upon  the 
Palmer's  broad  shoulder  and  Carl  wheeled.  In 
that  instant  as  he  grasped  Philip's  hand  in  a 
silence  more  eloquent  than  words,  every  finer 
instinct  of  his  queerly  balanced  nature  flashed 
in  his  face.  The  two  hands  tightened  and  fell 
apart. 

"Come,  smoke!"  invited  Carl,  smiling.  "I'm 
glad  you're  here.  I  haven't  been  ragged  and 
abused  for  so  long  there's  a  lonely  furrow  in 
my  soul." 

But  Dick  Sherrill,  looking  very  warm  and  dis- 


The  Unmasking  249 

gruntled  in  a  costume  he  informed  them  bitterly 
was  meant  for  Claude  Duval,  came  up  as  they 
were  turning  away  and  insisted  upon  presenting 
Carl  to  the  guest  of  the  evening. 

"  Ann  sent  me,"  he  added.  "  And  you've  got 
to  come.  And  I  want  to  say  right  now  that  Ann 
makes  me  tired.  She's  as  notional  as  a  lunatic. 
She  planned  this  rig  and  now  she  doesn't  like  it. 
And  if  I  don't  look  like  a  highwayman  you  can 
wager  your  last  sou  I  feel  like  one,  and  that's 
sufficient.  The  whole  trouble  is  that  Ann's  been 
so  busy  with  hair-dressers  and  manicurists  and 
corsetieres  and  dressmakers  and  the  Lord  knows 
what  not  over  that  stunning  Indian  girl,  who'll 
likely  run  off  with  the  family  topazes,  that  she's 
had  no  time  for  her  brother,  and  rubs  it  in  now 
by  laughing  at  the  shape  of  my  legs.  What's 
the  matter  with  my  legs,  Carl  ? " 

"  Too  ornamental,"  said  Carl.  "  Curvilinear 
grace  is  all  very  well  but  — 

"  Shut  up ! "  said  Sherrill  viciously.  "  Have 
you  ever  met  this  king-pin  I'm  exploiting?" 

"  I've  seen  him,"  said  Carl.  "  Once  when  he 
was  riding  up  the  mountian  road  to  Houdania 
with  a  brilliant  escort  and  one — er — other  time. 
Think  I  told  you  I'd  spent  a  month  or  so  in  a 
Houdanian  monastery  several  years  ago,  didn't 
I,  Dick?" 


250        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"Yes,"  said  Dick.  "That's  why  I  asked. 
Poynter,  who  in  blue  blazes  are  you  looking  for? " 

Philip  flushed. 

"  Dry  up ! "  he  advised.     "  You're  grouchy." 

Sherrill  was  still  heatedly  denying  the  charge 
when  they  halted  near  the  Baron. 

'  You  wear  a  singular  costume,"  suggested 
Ronador  stiffly,  when  the  formalities  of  presenta 
tion  were  at  an  end.  He  glanced  at  the  luminous 
turban  and  thence  to  the  chains.  Carl,  though 
he  had  primarily  intended  the  singular  rig  for  the 
eyes  of  Tregar,  had  subtly  invited  the  remark. 
His  eyes  were  darkly  ironic. 

"Prince,"  he  said  guilelessly,  "it  is  a  silent 
parable." 

"Yes?" 

"I  am  'The  Ghost  of  a  Man's  Past!'"  ex 
plained  the  Palmer  lightly — and  clanked  his 
chains.  The  level  glances  of  the  two  met  with 
the  keenness  of  invisible  swords. 

"The  heavy,  sinister  black,"  suggested  the 
Palmer,  "the  flashes  of  forbidden  scarlet — the 
hours  of  a  man's  past  are  scarlet,  are  they  not? 
— the  cloud  above  the  head,  with  a  treacherous 
heart  of  fire,  the  clanking  chains  of  bondage  — 
they  are  all  here.  And  the  skeleton  in  the  closet 
—  Sire — behold!"  He  laughed  and  flung  back 
his  mantle,  revealing  a  perfect  skeleton  cun- 


The  Unmasking  251 

ningly  etched  in  glaring  white  upon  a  close-fit 
ting  garment  of  black. 

Did  the  Baron's  eyes  flash  suddenly  with  a 
queer  dry  humor?  Philip  could  not  be  sure. 

With  a  clank  of  symbolic  chains  Carl  bowed 
and  withdrew,  and  coming  suddenly  upon  his 
cousin,  halted  and  stared.  Long  afterward  Di 
ane  was  to  remember  that  she  had  caught  a  sim 
ilar  look  in  the  eyes  of  Ronador. 

"Well?"  she  begged,  slightly  uncomfortable. 

Carl  smiled.  Once  more  his  fine  eyes  were  im 
passive.  With  ready  grace  he  admired  the  deli 
cately-thonged  tunic  and  the  beaded  sash,  the 
bright  turban  with  the  beaten  band  of  silver  and 
the  darkly  lovely  face  beneath  it. 

"  It's  a  duplicate  of  the  rig  my  little  Indian 
friend  wears,"  she  explained,  smiling.  "  Hasn't 
Ann  told  you?  She's  quite  wild  about  it." 

"Ann's  very  busy  soothing  Dick,"  laughed 
Carl  and  to  the  malicious  satisfaction  of  that 
worthy  Greek  who  had  been  trailing  along  in  his 
wake,  presented  Herodotus.  Diane  nodded, 
smiled  politely  —  and  sought  delicately  to  ignore 
the  ancient  Greek.  It  was  a  hopeless  task. 
Mr.  Poynter  insisted  upon  considering  himself 
included  in  every  word  she  uttered. 

"Isn't  mother  a  dear!"  exclaimed  Ann  Sher- 
rill  joining  them.  "After  ragging  me  desper 
ately  for  days  about  Keela,  until  I  threatened  to 


252        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

kill  myself,  and  giving  me  an  exceedingly  horrid 
little  book  on  the  advisability  of  curbing  one's 
most  interesting  impulses,  she's  taken  her  under 
her  wing  to-night  and  they're  excellent  friends. 
Philip,  dear,  go  unruffle  Dick.  He's  horribly 
fussed  up  about  something  or  other.  Carl,  I  want 
you  to  meet  Keela.  It's  the  most  interesting 
thing  I've  dared  in  ages  and  Dad's  been  very  de 
cent  about  it.  Dad  always  did  understand  me. 
He  has  a  sense  of  humor." 

Diane  and  Carl  followed,  laughing,  at  her  heels. 
Ann  presently  found  her  mother  and  Keela  and 
unaware  of  the  astonished  interest  in  Carl's  eyes, 
presented  him. 

"The  Black  Palmer!"  said  Keela  naively. 

"Lady  of  Gold  and  Black!"  said  Carl  and 
bowed  profoundly. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE   BECKONING 

reckoning  of  Ronador  and  the  Baron 
JL  came  by  the  cypress  pool. 

4 '  It  is  useless  to  rave  and  storm,"  said  Tregar 
quietly.  "  I  hold  the  cards." 

"  Was  it  necessary  to  humiliate  me  in  the  pres 
ence  of  Miss  West  fall?"  demanded  Ronador 
bitterly.  With  all  his  sullenness  there  was  in  his 
tone  a  marked  respect  for  the  older  man. 

"  It  was  necessary  to  end  this  romantic  mas 
querade!"  insisted  Tregar.  "Why  are  you 
here?" 

"I  —  I  came  in  a  flash  of  panic.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  after  all  I  —  I  could  not  trust  to  other 
hands  when  the  dead  thing  stirred."  Ronador's 
face  was  white  and  haggard.  In  that  instant  his 
forty-four  years  lay  heavily  upon  his  shoulders. 

"Have  I  ever  misplaced  your  trust?"  re 
minded  Tregar  sombrely.  "  Have  I  not  even 
kept  your  secret  from  your  father?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  tell  me,"  asked  the  Baron  bluntly, 
"  why  you  must  come  to  America  and  hysterically 
complicate  this  damnable  mess  by  —  a  bullet!" 

Greatly  agitated,  Ronador  fell  to  pacing  to  and 

253 


254        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

fro.  Heavy  cypress  shadows  upon  the  water 
moved  like  pointing  fingers. 

"Is  there  nothing  I  may  keep  from  you?" 
broke  from  him  a  little  bitterly. 

"Why,"  insisted  the  older  man,  "have  you 
seen  fit  to  conduct  yourself  with  the  irrationality 
of  a  madman  by  trundling  a  music-machine  about 
the  country  and  making  love  to  a  girl  you  tried 
in  a  moment  of  fright  and  frenzy  —  to  kill?" 

"I  —  I  lost  my  head,"  said  the  Prince  with  an 
effort.  "It — it  seemed  at  first  that  she  must 
die.  The  other,  I  thought  to  myself,  I  will  leave 
to  Themar  and  the  Baron.  This  I  must  do  for 
myself.  They  will  spare  her  and  years  hence  the 
thing  may  stir  again.  I  —  I  can  not  bear  to  think 
of  it  even  now,  Tregar.  I  have  paid  heavily  for 
my  moment  of  madness.  For  nights  after,  I  did 
not  sleep.  Even  now  the  memory  is  unspeakable 
torture!"  And  Ronador  admitted  with  stiff, 
white  lips  that  some  nameless  God  of  Malice  had 
made  capital  of  his  bullet,  stirring  his  heart  into 
admiration  for  the  fearless  girl  who  had  stood  so 
gallantly  by  the  fire  in  a  storm-haunted  wood.  In 
the  heart  of  the  forest  a  happier  solution  had 
come  to  him  and  eliminated  the  sinister  thought 
of  murder. 

The  Baron  coldly  heard  the  passionate  avowal 
through  to  the  end. 

"And  the  Princess  Phaedra?"  he  begged  for- 


The  Reckoning  255 

mally.  "What  of  her?  What  of  the  marriage 
that  is  to  dissolve  the  bitter  feud  of  a  century 
between  Houdania  and  Galituria,  this  marriage 
to  which  already  you  are  informally  bound?'* 

"  It  is  nothing  to  me.  I  shall  marry  Miss  West- 
fall." 

"  So ! "  The  Baron  matched  his  heavy  finger 
tips.  "  So !  And  this  is  another  infernal  com 
plication  of  the  freedom  of  marital  choice  we 
grant  our  princes!" 

"Ten  years  ago,"  flamed  Ronador  passion 
ately,  "  you  and  my  father  picked  a  wife  for  me ! 
Is  not  that  enough?  Now  that  she  is  dead,  I  shall 
marry  whom  I  choose.  Has  it  not  occurred  to 
you  that  after  all  it  is  the  sanest  way  out  of  this 
horrible  muddle?" 

"  It  is  one  way  out,"  admitted  Tregar,  "  and  by 
that  way  lies  war  with  Galituria."  He  fell  silent, 
plucking  at  his  beard.  "  I  fancy,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  that  you  will  not  go  back  to  the  music-machine." 

"It  was  —  and  is — my  only  means  of  follow 
ing  her." 

"  Do  so  again,"  said  the  Baron  dryly,  "  and 
the  American  yellow  papers  shall  blazon  your 
identity  to  the  world.  *  Son  of  a  prince  regent 
— nephew  of  a  king — trundles  a  music-machine 
about  to  win  a  beautiful  gypsy ! '  And  Galituria 
and  the  Princess  Phaedra  will  read  with  interest." 
Then  he  blazed  suddenly  with  one  of  his  infre- 


256        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

quent  outbursts  of  passion,  "  Is  it  not  enough  to 
have  Galituria  laughing  at  a  mad  king  whose 
claim  to  the  throne  by  our  laws  may  not  be  invali 
dated  by  his  madness?  A  king  so  mad  that  the 
affairs  of  a  nation  must  be  administered  by  a 
prince  regent — your  father?  Must  you  add  to 
all  this  the  disgrace  of  breaking  faith  with  Gali- 
turia  and  plunging  your  country  into  war  ?  Your 
father  is  an  old  man.  With  but  his  life  and  the 
life  of  an  aging  madman  between  you  and  the 
throne,  it  behooves  you  to  walk  with  a  full  rec 
ognition  of  your  future  responsibilities.  Your 
father  knows  you  are  here  in  America? " 

"No.  There  was  an  Arctic  expedition.  He 
thinks  I  have  gone  hunting  with  that.  At  first 
I  thought  I  could  come  to  America  and  return 
with  no  one  the  wiser." 

"Having  murdered  Miss  Westfall!"  com 
pleted  the  Baron  quietly. 

Ronador's  face  was  ashen. 

"  Excellency,"  he  choked  suddenly,  "  my  little 
son  —  " 

'  Yes,"  said  Tregar  with  sudden  kindness,  "  I 
know.  Your  great  love  and  ambition  for  the  boy 
drove  you  to  madness."  He  paused.  '  You  are 
fully  decided  to  break  faith  with  Phaedra,  know 
ing  what  may  come  of  it  ? " 

'  Yes.  Even  if  my  great  love  for  Miss  West- 
fall  did  not  drive  me  on  —  " 


The  Reckoning  257 

"To  indiscretion!"  supplied  the  Baron  dryly. 

"  As  you  will.  Even  then,  to  me  it  is  now  the 
one  way  out.  With  Cranberry  dead,  with  the 
treacherous  paper  in  my  possession  —  " 

"  It  has  heen  burned." 

Ronador  did  not  hear. 

"With  Miss  Westfall  my  wife,"  he  finished, 
"  even  if  the  dead  thing  stirs  again,  it  can  make 
no  difference." 

"Then,"  said  the  Baron  formally,  "I  am 
through  with  it  all,  quite  through.  The  task  was 
never  of  my  choosing,  as  you  know.  When  the 
dead  hand  reached  forth  from  the  grave  to  taunt 
you,  Ronador,  I  was  willing  at  first  to  stoop  to 
unutterable  things  to  save  you — and  Houdania 
—  from  dishonor,  but  more  and  more  there  has 
been  distaste  in  my  heart  for  the  blackness  of  the 
thing.  Days  back  I  warned  you  by  letter  that  I 
would  not  see  Miss  Westfall  coldly  sacrificed  for 
a  muddle  of  which  she  knew  absolutely  nothing. 
There  are  things  a  man  may  not  do  even  for  his 
country  —  one  is  murdering  women.  Now, 
though  I  pledged  myself  through  loyalty  to  my 
country,  my  king,  my  regent  and  yourself  to  spy 
ing  and  murder  and  petty  thievery,  with  a  conse 
quent  chain  of  discomfort  and  misunderstandings 
for  myself,  I  am  through  and  mightily  glad 
of  it!" 

"And  what  have  you  accomplished?"  flamed 


258        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Ronador  passionately.  "  Cranberry,  for  all  your 
ciphered  pledges,  lives  and  mocks  me  as  he  did  to 
night,  as  he  did  months  back.  I  could  kill  him  for 
the  indignities  he  has  heaped  upon  me,  if  for  noth 
ing  else.  And  he  knows  more  than  you  think. 
What  did  he  mean  to-night? " 

"Circumstances,"  said  Tregar  coldly,  "have 
made  you  unduly  sensitive  and  suspicious.  Gran- 
berry's  costume  was  planned  maliciously  as  an 
impersonal  affront  to  me.  He  knew  of  my  plans 
through  a  telegram  of  mine  to  Themar  and  made 
his  own  accordingly.  It  was  not  your  past  to 
which  he  referred.  Surely  it  is  not  difficult  to 
catch  his  meaning?" 

"  Blunders  and  blunders  and  quixotic  scru 
ples,"  raved  Ronador,  "  and  now  this  crowning 
indignity  to-night!  What  has  Themar  been  do 
ing?  .  .  .  What  have  you  done?  .  .  . 
Why  is  Cranberry  still  alive?  Hereafter,  Tre 
gar,  Themar  will  report  to  me.  I  personally 
will  see  that  the  thing  is  cleared  up  and  silenced 
forever.  I  may  trust  at  least  to  your  silence? " 

" My  word  as  a  gentleman  is  sufficient? " 

"It  "is." 

"  Consider  me  pledged  to  silence  as  I  have  been 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century." 

"Where  is  Themar?" 

"  He  is  here  at  my  command  to-night  after  an 
illness  of  weeks.  He  has  been  Cranberry's  pris- 


The  Reckoning  259 

oner.  His  illness  alone  won  his  release  for  him 
through  some  inconsistent  whim  of  sympathy  on 
the  part  of  Cranberry.  He  wears  the  garb  of  a 
gray  monk." 

"  Send  him  here." 

The  Baron  bowed  and  withdrew.  At  the  path 
he  turned. 

"  Ronador,"  he  said  quietly,  "  for  the  sake  of 
the  lifetime  friendship  I  have  borne  your  father, 
for  the  sake  of  the  position  of  honor  and  trust  I 
hold  in  your  father's  court,  for  the  sake  of  my 
great  love  for  Houdania,  let  me  say  that  when 
you  find  you  are  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into  a 
pitfall  of  errors  and  unhappiness  and  treachery, 
I  shall  be  ready  and  willing  to  aid  and  advise  you 
as  best  I  may.  I  think  I  know  you  better  than 
you  know  yourself.  You  have  an  inheritance  of 
wild  passion,  a  nature  that  swayed  by  irresistible 
and  fiery  impulse,  will  for  the  moment  dare  any 
thing  and  regret  it  with  terrible  suffering  ever 
after.  One  such  lesson  you  have  had  in  early 
manhood.  I  hope  you  may  not  rush  on  blindly  to 
another.  Until  you  come  to  me,  however,"  he 
added  with  dignity,  "  I  shall  not  meddle  again." 

"  I  shall  not  come ! "  said  Ronador  imperiously. 
But  the  Baron  was  gone. 

Later,  by  the  cypress  pool,  the  gray  monk  and 
the  minstrel  talked  long  and  earnestly  of  one  who 
knew  overmuch  of  the  affairs  of  both. 


260        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

'  There  is  but  one  thing  more,"  faltered  The- 
mar  at  the  end.  "  I  may  speak  with  freedom?  " 
'  Yes,"  said  Ronador  impatiently,  "  what  is 
it?" 

"Miss  Westfall  —  I  spied  upon  her  camp  in 
Connecticut  —  " 

"Yes?" 

"  It  is  well  to  know  all.  For  days  she  lived  with 
Poynter  in  the  forest  —  " 

Ronador's  eyes  blazed. 

"Go,  go!"  he  cried,  his  face  quite  colorless, 
"  for  the  love  of  God  go  before  I  kill  you !  I  —  I 
can  not  bear  any  more  to-night." 

Who  had  scored !  For  Ronador,  at  least,  in  the 
guileful  hands  of  a  traitor  who  by  reason  of  a 
strong  maternal  sympathy  desired  the  alliance  of 
Ronador  and  Princess  Phaedra,  there  was  doubt 
and  bitter  suffering.  And  he  might  not  return  to 
the  music-machine. 

Themar's  thin  lips  smiled  but  he  wisely 
retreated. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

FOREST    FRIENDS 

TVTORTHWARD  to  Jacksonville  had  jour- 
1*\  neyed  the  camp  of  the  Indian  girl,  bearing 
away  Diane,  to  Aunt  Agatha's  unspeakable  agi 
tation.  Now,  joining  forces,  these  two  forest 
friends,  linked  in  an  idle  moment  by  the  name 
less  freemasonry  of  the  woodland,  were  winding 
happily  south  along  the  seacoast.  Nights  their 
camps  lay  side  by  side. 

Keela,  with  shy  and  delightful  gravity,  slipped 
wide-eyed  into  the  niceties  of  civilization,  coiled 
her  heavy  hair  in  the  fashion  of  Diane  and  copied 
her  dress  naively.  Diane  felt  a  thrill  of  satisfac 
tion  at  this  singular  finding  of  a  friend  whose 
veins  knew  the  restless  stir  of  nomadic  blood,  a 
friend  who  was  fleeter  of  foot,  keener  of  vision 
and  hearing  and  better  versed  in  the  ways  of  the 
woodland  than  Diane  herself.  And  Diane  had 
known  no  peer  in  the  world  of  white  men. 

There  were  gray  dawns  when  a  pair  of  silent 
riders  went  galloping  through  the  stillness  upon 
the  Westf  all  horses,  riding  easily  without  saddles ; 
there  were  twilights  when  they  swam  in  sheltered 
pools  like  wild  brown  nymphs;  there  were  quiet 
hours  by  the  camp  fire  when  the  inborn  reticence 

261 


262        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

of  the  Indian  girl  vanished  in  the  frank  sincerity 
of  Diane's  friendship.  Of  Mr.  Poynter  and  the 
hay-camp  there  was  no  sign. 

"Doubtless,"  considered  Diane  disdainfully, 
"  he  has  come  at  last  to  his  senses.  And  I'm  very 
glad  he  has,  very  glad  indeed.  It's  time  he  did. 
I  think  I  made  my  displeasure  sufficiently  clear 
at  the  exceedingly  tricky  way  he  and  the  Baron 
conducted  themselves  at  Palm  Beach.  And  the 
Baron  was  no  better  than  Philip.  Indeed,  I  think 
he  was  very  much  worse.  If  Philip  hadn't  wan 
dered  about  in  the  garb  of  Herodotus  and  mur 
mured  that  impertinence  about  'frost  in  Florida* 
it  wouldn't  have  been  so  bad.  It's  a  very  unfor 
tunate  thing,  however,  that  he  never  seems  to  re 
member  one's  displeasure  or  the  cause  of  it." 

But  for  one  who  rejoiced  in  Mr.  Poynter's  be 
lated  inheritance  of  common  sense,  Diane's  com 
ment  a  few  days  later  was  very  singular. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  reflected  uncomfortably,  "  if 
Philip  understands  smoke  signals.  He  may  be 
lost." 

But  Philip  was  not  lost.  He  was  merely 
discreet. 

A  lonely  beach  fringed  in  sand  hills  lay  before 
the  camp.  Beyond  rolled  the  ocean,  itself  a 
melancholy  solitude  droning  under  an  azure  sky. 
There  were  beach  birds  running  in  flocks  down 
the  sand  as  the  white-ridged  foam  receded ;  over- 


Forest  Friends  263 

head  an  Indian  file  of  pelicans  winged  briskly  out 
to  sea. 

On  the  broad,  hard  beach  to  the  north  presently 
appeared  a  music-machine.  Piebald  horse,  broad, 
eccentric  wagon,  cymbals  and  drum  —  there  was 
no  mistaking  the  outfit,  nor  the  minstrel  him 
self  with  his  broad-brimmed  sombrero  tipped  pro 
tectively  over  his  nose. 

Now  despite  the  fact  that  the  Baron  had  hinted 
that  Ronador's  masquerade  was  at  an  end,  the 
music-machine  steadily  approached  and  halted. 
The  minstrel  alighted  and  fell  stiffly  to  turning 
the  crank,  whereupon  with  a  fearful  roll  of  the 
drum  and  a  clash  of  cymbals,  the  papier-mache 
snake  began  to  unfold  and  "  An  Old  Girl  of 
Mine"  emerged  from  the  cataclysm  of  sound 
and  frightened  the  fish  hawks  over  the  shallow 
water.  A  great  blue  heron,  knee-deep  in  water, 
croaked  with  annoyance,  flapped  his  wings  and 
departed. 

When  the  dreadful  commotion  in  the  wagon  at 
last  subsided,  the  minstrel  came  through  the  trees 
and  sweeping  off  his  sombrero,  bowed  and  smiled. 

"Merciful  Heavens!"  exclaimed  the  girl, 
staring. 

It  was  Mr.  Poynter. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  regretted  Mr.  Poynter.  "  I'm 
really  sorry  I  feel  so  well  — but  I've  got  a  music- 
machine."  And  seating  himself  most  comfort- 


264        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

ably  by  the  fire,  with  a  frankly  admiring  glance 
at  his  corduroy  trousers,  silken  shirt  and  broad 
sombrero,  he  anxiously  inquired  what  Diane 
thought  of  his  costume.  Indeed,  he  admitted, 
that  thought  had  been  uppermost  in  his  mind  for 
days,  for  he'd  copied  it  very  faithfully. 

"It's  ridiculous!"  said  Diane,  "and  you  know 
it." 

There,  said  Mr.  Poynter,  he  must  disagree. 
He  didn't  know  it. 

"Well,"  said  Diane  flatly,  "to  my  thinking, 
this  is  considerably  worse  than  blowing  a  tin 
whistle  on  the  steps  of  the  van! " 

Mr.  Poynter  could  not  be  sure.  He  said  in  his 
delightfully  naive  way,  however,  that  a  music- 
machine  was  a  thing  to  arouse  romance  and 
sympathy  with  conspicuous  success,  that  more 
and  more  the  moon  was  getting  him,  and  that  he 
did  hope  Diane  would  remember  that  he  was  the 
disguised  Duke  of  Connecticut.  Moreover,  his 
most  tantalizing  shortcoming  up-to-date  had 
seemed  to  be  a  total  inability  to  arouse  said 
romance  and  sympathy,  especially  sympathy,  for, 
whether  or  not  Diane  would  believe  it,  even  here 
in  this  land  of  flowers  he  had  encountered  frost! 
Wherefore,  having  personal  knowledge  of  the 
success  incidental  to  unwinding  a  hullabaloo  in 
proper  costume,  he  had  purchased  one  from  a — 
er — distinguished  gentleman  who  for  singular 


Forest  Friends  265 

and  very  private  reasons  had  no  further  use  for 
it.  And  though  the  negotiations,  for  reasons  un- 
namable,  had  had  to  be  conducted  with  infinite 
discretion  through  an  unknown  third  person,  he 
had  eventually  found  himself  the  possessor  of  the 
hullabaloo,  to  his  great  delight.  He  had  hulla- 
balooed  his  way  along  the  coast  in  the  wake  of  a 
nomadic  friend,  but  deeming  it  wise  to  await  the 
dispersal  of  frost  strangely  engendered  by  a 
.Regent's  Hymn,  had  discreetly  kept  his  distance 
and  proved  his  benevolence,  in  the  manner  of  his 
distinguished  predecessor,  by  playing  to  all  the 
nice  old  ladies  in  the  dooryards.  .  .  .  And 
one  of  them  had  given  him  a  piece  of  pie  and  a 
bottle  of  excellent  coffee  and  fretted  a  bit  about 
the  way  he  was  wasting  his  life.  Mr.  Poynter 
added  that  in  the  fashion  of  certain  young  darkies 
who  infest  the  Southern  roads,  he  would  willingly 
stand  on  his  head  for  a  baked  potato  in  lieu  of  a 
nickel,  being  very  hungry. 

'  You  probably  mean  by  that,  that  you're  going 
to  stay  to  supper!"  said  Diane. 

Mr.  Poynter  meant  just  that. 

"Where,"  demanded  Diane,  "is  the  hay- 
camp?" 

"Well,"  said  Philip,  "Ras  is  a  hay-bride 
groom.  He  dreamt  he  was  married  and  it  made 
such  a  profound  impression  upon  him  that  he 
went  and  married  somebody.  He  slept  through 


266        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

his  wooing  and  he  slept  through  his  wedding  and 
I  gave  him  the  hay  and  the  cart  and  Dick  Whit- 
tington.  I  don't  think  he  entirely  appreciated 
Dick  either,  for  he  blinked  some.  All  of  which 
primarily  engendered  the  music-machine  inspira 
tion.  It's  really  a  very  comfortable  way  of  travel 
ing  about  and  the  wagon  was  fastidiously  fitted 
up  by  my  distinguished  predecessor.  The  seat's 
padded  and  plenty  broad  enough  to  sleep  on." 

Mr.  Poynter  presently  departed  to  the  music- 
machine  for  a  peace  offering  in  the  shape  of  a  bow 
and  some  arrows  upon  which,  he  said,  he'd  been 
working  for  days.  When  he  returned,  laden  with 
luxurious  contributions  to  the  evening  meal,  the 
camp  had  still  another  guest.  Keela  was  sitting 
by  the  fire.  Philip  eyed  with  furtive  approval  the 
modish  shirtwaist,  turned  back  at  the  full  brown 
throat,  and  the  heavily  coiled  hair. 

"  The  Seminole  rig/'  explained  Diane,  "  was 
an  excellent  drawing  card  for  Palm  Beach  tour 
ists  but  it  was  a  bit  conspicuous  for  the  road. 
Greet  him  in  Seminole,  Keela." 

"  Som-mus-ka-lar-nee-sha-maw-lin  I "  said  Kee 
la  with  gravity. 

Philip  looked  appalled. 

"  She  says  '  Good  wishes  to  the  white  man ! ' ' 
explained  Diane,  smiling. 

"  My  Lord,"  said  Philip,  "  I  wouldn't  have  be 
lieved  it.  Keela,  I  thought  you  were  joint  by 


Forest  Friends  267 

joint  unwinding  a  yard  or  so  of  displeasure  at  my 
appearance.  No-chit-pay-lon-es-chay ! "  he  added 
irresponsibly,  naming  a  word  he  had  picked  up  in 
Palm  Beach  from  an  Indian  guide. 

The  effect  was  electric.  Keela  stared.  Diane 
look  horrified. 

"  Philip ! "  she  said.  "  It  means  '  Lie  down  and 
go  to  sleep ! ' ' 

"To  the  Happy  Hunting  Ground  with  that 
bonehead  Indian!"  said  Philip  with  fervor. 
"  Lord,  what  a  civil  retort ! "  and  he  stammered 
forth  an  instant  apology. 

Immeasurably  delighted,  Keela  laughed. 
'  You  are  very  funny,"  she  said  in  English.    "  I 
shall  like  you." 

"That's  really  very  comfortable!"  said  Philip 
gratefully.  "  I  don't  deserve  it."  He  held  forth 
the  bow  and  arrows.  "  See  if  you  can  shoot  fast 
and  far  enough  to  have  six  arrows  in  the  air  at 
once,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  and  I'll  believe  I'm  for 
given." 

With  lightning-like  grace  Keela  shot  the  ar 
rows  into  the  air  and  smiled. 

"Great  Scott!"  exclaimed  Philip  admiringly. 
"Seven!" 

With  deft  ringers  she  strung  the  bow  again  and 
shot,  her  cheeks  as  vivid  as  a  wild  flower,  her  poise 
and  skill  faultless. 

"  Eight ! "  said  Philip  incredulously.    "  Help ! " 


268        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"Keela  is  easily  the  best  shot  I  ever  knew,'* 
exclaimed  Diane  warmly.  "  Try  it,  Philip." 

"Not  much!"  said  Philip  feelingly.  "I  can 
shoot  like  a  normal  being  with  one  pair  of  arms, 
but  I  can't  string  space  with  arrows  like  that. 
You  forest  nymphs,"  he  added  with  mild  resent 
ment,  "with  woodland  eyes  and  ears  and  skill 
put  me  to  shame.  You  and  I,  Diane,  quarreled 
once,  I  think,  about  the  number  of  Pleiades  - 

"  They're  an  excellent  test  of  eyesight,"  nodded 
Diane.  "  And  you  said  there  were  only  six ! " 

"There  is  no  seventh  Pleiad!"  said  Philip 
with  stubborn  decision. 

"Eight!"  said  Keela  shyly.  And  they  both 
stared.  Shooting  a  final  arrow,  she  sent  it  so 
far  that  Philip  indignantly  refused  to  look  for  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

BY  THE  WINDING  CREEK 

AT  DAWN  one  morning  a  long  black  car 
shot  out  from  Jacksonville  and  took  to  the 
}pen  road.  It  glided  swiftly  past  arid  stretches  of 
pine  barrens  streaked  with  stagnant  water,  past 
bogs  aglow  with  iris,  through  quaint  little  cities 
smiling  under  the  shelter  of  primeval  oaks  and  on, 
stopping  only  long  enough  for  the  driver  to  ask  a 
question  of  a  negro  on  a  load  of  wood  —  or  a 
mammy  singing  plaintively  in  the  flower-bright 
dooryard  of  a  house. 

Sometimes  losing,  sometimes  rinding,  the  trail 
of  a  green  and  white  van,  the  long  black  car  shot 
on,  through  roads  of  pleasant  windings  flanked 
by  forest  and  river,  beyond  which  lay  the  line  of 
green-fringed  sand  hills  which  parallel  the  roll 
ing  Atlantic.  Past  placid  lakes  skimmed-  by 
purple  martins,  past  orange  groves  heavy  with 
fruit,  past  fences  overrun  with  Cherokee  roses, 
and  on,  but  the  driver,  abroad  with  the  sunrise 
glow,  seemed  somehow  to  see  little  or  none  of  it. 
Sometimes  he  stared  sombrely  at  a  ghostly  pal 
metto,  tall  and  dark  against  the  sky.  Once  with  a 
grinding  shudder  of  brakes  he  halted  on  the 
border  of  a  cypress  swamp  and  stared  f  rowningly 

269 


270        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

at  the  dark,  dank  trees  knee-deep  in  stagnant 
water  above  which  the  buzzards  flew,  as  if  the 
loathsome  spot  matched  his  mood.  As  indeed  it 
did. 

For  the  words  of  Themar  had  done  cruel  work. 
Torn  by  black  suspicion,  Ronador  saw  no  peace 
in  this  tranquil  Florida  world  of  sun  and  flower, 
of  warm  south  wind  and  bright-winged  bird.  He 
saw  only  the  buzzards,  birds  of  evil  omen.  Swayed 
by  fiery  gusts  of  passion,  of  remorse,  of  sullen- 
ness  and  jealousy,  he  rode  on,  a  prey  to  sinister 
resolution.  To  confront  Diane  with  his  knowl 
edge  of  those  days  by  the  river,  this  resolution 
alternated  as  frequently  with  another — to  put 
his  fate  to  the  test  and  passionately  avow  his  utter 
trust  in  one  immeasurably  above  the  rank  and  file 
of  women.  He  had  racked  Themar  with  insistent 
questions,  he  had  quarreled  again  and  again  with 
the  Baron  since  that  night  by  the  pool,  until  now 
he  had  at  his  finger-ends,  the  ways  and  days  of 
Philip  Poynter  since  the  day  the  Baron  had  dis 
patched  his  young  secretary  upon  the  ill-fated 
errand  to  Diane.  And  as  there  were  finer  mo 
ments  when  his  faith  in  the  girl  was  unmarred 
by  suspicion,  so  there  were  wild,  unscrupulous 
hours  of  jealousy  when  he  could  have  killed  Philip 
and  taunted  her  with  insults. 

Driving  steadily,  he  came  in  course  of  time 
to  a  narrow,  grass-banked  creek.  The  nomads 


By  the  Winding  Creek         271 

on  the  winding  road  beside  it  were  many  and 
beautiful.  Here  were  yellow  butterflies,  sand 
pipers  and  kingfishers,  and  now  and  then  an 
eagle  cleaved  the  dazzling  blue  overhead  with 
magnificent  wing-strokes.  Sand  hills  reflected 
the  white  sunlight.  Beyond  glistened  a  stretch 
of  open  sea  with  a  flock  of  beautiful  gannets  of 
black  and  white  whipping  its  surface.  But  Rona- 
dor  did  not  thrill  to  the  peaceful  picture.  He 
glanced  instead  at  the  buzzard  which  seemed  curi 
ously  to  hang  above  the  long  black  car. 

Now  presently  as  he  eyed  the  road  ahead  for  a 
glimpse  of  the  van,  Ronador  saw  the  familiar 
lines  of  a  music-machine  and  drove  by  it  with  a 
glance  of  interest.  Instantly  the  blood  rushed 
violently  to  his  face.  For,  as  the  horse  and  music- 
machine  had  been  familiar,  so  was  the  driver,  who 
swept  a  broad  sombrero  from  his  head  and  re 
vealed  the  face  of  Philip  Poynter. 

With  a  curse  Ronador  abruptly  brought  the  car 
to  a  standstill.  The  very  irony  of  this  masquerade 
fired  him  with  terrible  anger. 

"You!  "he  choked.    "You!" 

Philip  nodded. 

"  I  guess  you're  right,"  he  said. 

The  blazing  dark  eyes  and  the  calm,  unruffled 
blue  ones  met  in  a  glance  of  implacable  antago 
nism.  Not  in  the  least  impressed  Philip  replaced 


272        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

his  sombrero  and  spoke  to  his  horse.  Fish  crows 
flew  overhead  with  croaks  of  harsh  derision. 

Another  buzzard !  With  a  terrible  jerk,  Rona- 
dor  drove  on,  his  face  scarlet. 

So  Poynter  still  dared  to  follow!  By  a  trick 
he  had  bought  the  music-machine,  by  a  trick  he 
had  given  the  Regent's  Hymn  to  the  curious  ears 
at  Sherrill's.  Very  well,  there  were  tricks  and 
tricks !  And  if  one  man  may  trick,  so,  surely,  may 
another. 

Passion  had  always  hushed  the  voice  of  the 
imperial  conscience,  though  indeed  it  awoke  and 
cried  in  a  terrible  voice  when  passion  was  dead. 
So  now  with  stiff  white  lips  fixed  in  unalterable 
resolution,  Ronador  drove  viciously  on,  turning 
over  and  over  in  his  fevered  brain  the  ways  and 
days  of  Philip  Poynter.  .  .  .  So  at  last  he 
came  to  the  camp  he  sought. 

It  was  pitched  upon  the  upland  bank  of  the 
winding  creek  and  as  the  car  shot  rapidly  toward 
it,  a  great  blue  heron  flapped  indignantly  and 
soared  away  to  the  marsh  beyond  the  trees. 
Ronador  jumped  queerly  and  colored  with  a 
sense  of  guilt. 

There  was  yellow  oxalis  here  carpeting  the 
ground  among  the  low,  dark  cedars,  yellow  but 
terflies  flitted  about  among  the  trees  where 
Johnny  was  washing  the  van,  and  the  inevitable 
buzzard  floated  with  upturned  wings  above  the 


By  the  Winding  Creek         273 

camp.  Ronador  had  grown  to  hate  the  ubiquitous 
bird  of  the  South.  Superstition  flamed  hotly  up 
in  his  heart  now  at  the  sight  of  it. 

Diane  was  sewing.  He  had  caught  the  flutter 
of  her  gown  beneath  a  cedar  as  he  stopped  the  car. 
There  was  no  one  visible  in  the  camp  of  the  Indian 
girl.  Ronador  sprang  from  his  car  and  waved 
to  the  girl;  smiling,  she  came  to  meet  him. 

Now  as  Ronador  smiled  down  into  the  clear, 
unfaltering  eyes  of  the  girl  before  him,  he  knew 
suddenly  that  he  trusted  her  utterly,  that  the  mad 
suspicion,  sired  by  the  words  of  Themar  and 
mothered  by  jealousy,  was  but  a  dank  mist  that 
melted  away  in  the  sunlight  of  her  presence. 
Only  jealousy  remained  and  a  smouldering,  un 
scrupulous  hate  for  the  persistent  young  organ- 
grinder  behind  him. 

Chatting  pleasantly  they  returned  to  camp. 

Imperceptibly  their  talk  of  the  fortunes  of  the 
road  took  on  a  more  intimate  tinge  of  reminis 
cence  and  presently,  with  searching  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  vivid,  lovely  face  of  the  wind-brown 
gypsy  beneath  the  cedar,  Ronador  asked  the  girl 
to  marry  him. 

Very  gently  Diane  released  her  hands  from  his 
grasp,  her  cheeks  scarlet. 

"Indeed,  indeed,"  she  faltered,  "I  could  not 
with  fairness  answer  you  now,  for  I  do  not  in  the 
least  know  what  I  think.  You  will  not  misunder- 


274        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

stand  me,  I  am  sure,  if  I  tell  you  that  not  once  in 
the  long,  pleasant  days  we  journeyed  the  same 
roads,  did  I  ever  dream  of  the  nature  of  your 
pleasant  friendship."  Her  frank,  dark  eyes, 
alive  with  a  beautiful  sincerity,  met  his  honestly. 
"There  was  always  tradition  — "  she  reminded. 

Ronador's  reply  was  sincere  and  gallant. 
Diane  was  lovelier  than  any  princess,  he  said,  and 
in  Houdania,  tradition  had  been  replaced  years 
back  by  a  law  which  granted  freedom. 

"  Though  to  be  sure,"  he  added  bitterly,  "  each 
generation  seeks  to  break  it.  Tregar  tried,  urg 
ing  me  persistently  for  diplomatic  reasons  to  take 
a  wife  of  his  choosing.  And  when  I  —  I  fled  to 
America  to  escape  his  infernal  scheming  and  spy 
ing —  he  followed.  Even  here  in  America  I  have 
been  haunted  by  spies  —  " 

His  glance  wavered. 

"  And  then,"  he  went  on  earnestly,  "  I  saw  you 
and  I  knew  that  Princess  Phaedra  was  forever  im 
possible.  There  was  a  night  of  terrible  wind  and 
storm  when  I  planned  to  beg  shelter  in  your  camp 
and  make  your  acquaintance.  .  .  .  You  are 
annoyed?" 

"No,"  said  Diane  honestly.  "Why  fuss 
now?" 

"Tregar  must  have  suspected.  I  met  his  — 
his  spy  in  the  forest  and  we  quarreled  wildly. 
He  tried  to  kill  me  but  the  bullet  went  wild." 


By  the  Winding  Creek         275 

Again  his  glance  wavered  but  the  lying  words 
came  smoothly.  "My  servant,  Themar,  leaped 
and  stabbed  him  in  the  shoulder  —  " 

"No!  No!"  cried  Diane.  "Not  that— not 
that!"  Her  eyes,  dark  with  horror  in  the  color 
less  oval  of  her  face,  met  Ronador's  with  mute 
appeal.  "It  —  it  can  not  be,"  she  added  quietly. 
"  The  man  was  Philip  Poynter." 

Ronador  caught  her  hands  again  with  fierce  re 
solve.  His  eyes  were  blazing  with  excitement  and 
anger  at  the  utter  faith  in  her  voice. 

"  Why  do  you  think  I  adopted  the  stained  face 
—  the  disguise  of  a  wandering  minstrel? "  he 
demanded  impetuously.  "  It  was  to  free  myself 
from  his  infernal  spying — to  afford  myself  the 
opportunity  of  gaining  your  friendship  without 
his  knowledge !  Why  did  he  follow  —  always  fol 
low?  Because  at  the  command  of  his  chief,  he 
must  needs  obstruct  my  plan  of  winning  you. 
There  was  always  Princess  Phaedra !  Why  did  he 
watch  by  night  in  the  forest.  To  spy!  Can  you 
not  see  it?" 

"Surely,  surely,"  said  Diane,  "you  must  be 
wrong!" 

But  Ronador  could  not  be  wrong.  Themar,  his 
servant,  whom  he  had  dispatched  to  seek  employ 
ment  with  the  Baron  when  the  fortunes  of  the 
road  had  made  further  attendance  upon  himself 
inconvenient,  had  learned  of  the  hay-camp  and  of 


276        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Poynter's  pledge  to  make  his  victim's  advances 
ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  Diane. 

"And  when  Themar  followed  —  to  warn  me 
—  Poynter  beat  him  brutally,"  he  went  on 
fiercely,  "  beat  him  and  sent  him  in  a  dirty  barge 
to  a  distant  city.  All  the  while  when  I  fancied 
my  disguise  impenetrable,  he  was  laughing  in  his 
sleeve,  for  he  is  as  clever  as  he  is  unscrupulous. 
He  was  even  meeting  his  chief  in  a  Kentucky 
woods  to  report.  Tregar  admitted  it.  Why  did 
he  make  me  ridiculous  at  the  Sherrill  fete? 
Purely  because  your  eyes,  Miss  Westfall,  were 
among  those  who  watched  the  indignity !  Why  is 
he  driving  about  now  in  the  music-machine  to 
mock  me?  Because  having  forced  me  from  the 
road,  he  must  needs  see  to  it  that  I  do  not  return. 
When  I  do,  he  must  be  near  at  hand  to  report  to 
the  Baron." 

It  was  an  artful  network.  Somehow,  by  virtue 
of  the  sinister  skeleton  of  facts  underlying  the 
velvet  of  his  logic,  it  rang  true.  Diane,  as  color 
less  as  a  flower,  sat  utterly  silent,  slender  brown 
fingers  tightened  against  the  palms  of  her  hands. 

Philip  false !  Philip  a  spy !  Philip  —  almost  a 
murderer!  It  could  not  be! 

Yet  how  insistently  he  had  striven  to  force  her 
to  return  to  civilization.  Away  from  Ronador? 
It  might  be.  How  insistently  the  Baron  had 
urged  him  to  linger  in  her  camp!  To  spy?  A 


By  the  Winding  Creek         277 

great  wave  of  faintness  swept  over  her.  And 
there  was  Arcadia  and  the  hay-camp  and  the 
mildly  impudent  indignities  —  they  all  slipped 
accurately  into  place. 

"I  —  I  do  not  know!"  she  faltered  at  last  in 
answer  to  his  impetuous  pleading.  "If  you  will 
not  see  me  again  until  I  may  think  it  all  out  —  " 

But  there  was  danger  in  waiting.  A  hot  appeal 
flashed  in  Ronador's  eyes  and  eloquently  again 
he  fell  to  pleading. 

But  Diane  had  caught  the  clatter  of  the  music- 
machine  up  the  road  where  Philip  was  good- 
humoredly  unwinding  the  hullabaloo  for  a  crowd 
of  gleeful  young  darkies,  and  suddenly  she  turned 
very  white  and  stern. 

"  No !    No ! "  she  said.    "  It  must  be  as  I  said.'* 

And  presently,  with  faith  in  his  poisoned 
arrows  Ronador  went,  pledged  to  await  her 
summons. 

Diane  sat  very  still  beneath  the  cedars,  with 
the  noise  of  the  music-machine  wild  torture  to 
her  ears. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  MOON  ABOVE  THE  MARSH 

THE  MOON  silvered  the  marsh  and  the 
creek.  Off  to  the  east  rippled  a  silent, 
moon-white  stretch  of  sea,  infinitely  lonely,  mur 
muring  in  the  star-cool  night. 

Restless  and  wakeful  Diane  watched  the 
stream  glide  endlessly  on,  each  reed  and  pebble 
silvered.  Rex  lay  on  the  bank  beside  her,  whither 
he  had  followed  faithfully  a  very  long  while  ago, 
snapping  at  the  insects  which  rose  from  the  grass. 
So  colorless  and  fixed  was  the  face  of  his  mistress 
that  it  seemed  a  beautiful  graven  tiling  devoid  of 
life. 

Now  presently  as  Diane  stared  at  the  moon 
lit  pebbles  glinting  at  her  feet,  a  shadow  among 
the  cedars,  having  advanced  and  retreated  uncer 
tainly  a  score  of  times  before,  suddenly  detached 
itself  from  the  wavering  stencil  of  tree  and  bush 
upon  the  moonlit  ground  and  resolved  itself  into 
the  figure  of  a  tall,  determined  sentinel  who 
approached  and  seated  himself  beside  her. 

"What's  wrong?"  begged  Philip  gently. 
'  I've  been  watching  you  for  hours,  Diane,  and 
you've  scarcely  moved  an  inch." 

"Nothing,"  said  Diane.    But  her  voice  was  so 

278 


The  Moon  Above  the  Marsh    279 

lifeless,  her  lack  of  interest  in  Philip's  sudden  ap 
pearance  so  pointed,  that  he  glanced  keenly  at 
her  colorless  face  and  frowned. 

"There  is  something,  I'm  sure,"  he  insisted 
kindly.  "  You  look  it."  Finding  that  she  did  not 
trouble  to  reply,  he  produced  his  wildwood  pipe 
and  fell  to  smoking. 

"Likely  I'll  stay  here,"  said  Philip  quietly, 
"  until  you  tell  me.  Surely  you  know,  Diane,  that 
in  anything  in  God's  world  that  concerns  you,  I 
stand  ready  to  help  you  if  you  need  me." 

It  was  manfully  spoken  but  Diane's  lips 
faintly  curled.  Philip's  fine  frank  face  colored 
hotly  and  he  looked  away. 

In  silence  they  sat  there,  Philip  smoking  rest 
lessly  and  wondering,  Diane  staring  at  the  creek, 
with  Ronador's  impassioned  voice  ringing  wildly 
in  her  ears. 

In  the  east  the  sky  turned  faintly  primrose, 
the  creek  glowed  faintly  pink.  The  great  moon 
glided  lower  by  the  marsh  with  the  branch  of  a 
dead  tree  black  against  its  brilliant  shield.  Marsh 
and  oak  were  faintly  gray.  The  metallic  ocean 
had  already  caught  the  deepening  glow  of  life. 
Where  the  stream  stole  swampwards,  a  mist 
curled  slowly  up  from  the  water  like  beckoning 
ghosts  draped  in  nebulous  rags. 

Suddenly  in  the  silence  Diane  fell  to  trembling. 

"  Philip ! "  she  cried  desperately. 


280        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"Yes?  "  said  Philip  gently. 

"Why  are  you  following  me  with  the  music- 
machine?" 

"  I  could  tell  you,"  said  Philip  honestly,  "  and 
I'd  like  to,  but  you'd  tell  me  again  that  the  moon 
is  on  my  head." 

The  girl  smiled  faintly. 

'  Tell  me,"  she  begged  impetuously,  "  what 
was  that  other  reason  why  I  must  not  journey  to 
Florida  in  the  van?  You  spoke  of  it  by  the  lily 
pool  in  Connecticut.  You  remember?" 

'Yes,"  said  Philip  uncomfortably.  'Yes,  I 
do  remember." 

"What  was  it?"  insisted  Diane,  her  eyes  im 
ploring.  "Surely,  Philip,  you  can  tell  me  now! 
I  —  I  did  not  ask  you  then  —  " 

"  No,"  said  Philip  wistfully.  "  I  —  I  think  you 
trusted  me  then,  for  all  our  friendship  was  a  thing 
of  weeks." 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Diane,  grown  very 
white. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Philip  simply.  "  I  may  not 
tell  you  that,  Diane.  I  am  pledged." 

"To  whom?" 

"  It  is  better,"  said  Philip,  "  if  I  do  not  tell." 

Diane  sharply  caught  her  breath  and  stared  at 
the  sinister  wraiths  rising  in  floating  files  from  the 
swamp  stream. 

"  Philip  —  was  it —  was  it  Themar's  knife?" 


The  Moon  Above  the  Marsh    281 

"Yes,"  said  Philip. 

"And  the  man  to  whom  you  are  pledged  is — 
Baron  Tregar! " 

"  Yes,"  said  Philip  again. 

"Why  were  you  in  the  forest  that  night  of 
storm  and  wind?" 

Philip  glanced  keenly  at  the  girl  by  the  creek. 
Her  profile  was  stern  and  very  beautiful,  but  the 
finely  moulded  lips  had  quivered. 

"What  is  it,  Diane?"  he  begged  gently. 
"  Why  is  it  that  you  must  ask  me  all  these  things 
that  I  may  not  honorably  answer? " 

"I  —  I  do  not  see  why  you  may  not  answer." 

"  An  honorable  man  respects  his  promise  scrup 
ulously!"  said  Philip  with  a  sigh.  "  You  would 
not  have  me  break  mine? " 

"  Why,"  cried  Diane,  "  did  you  fight  with  The- 
mar  in  the  forest?  Why  have  you  night  after 
night  watched  my  camp?  Oh,  Philip,  surely, 
surely,  you  can  tell  me!" 

Philip  sighed.  With  his  infernal  habit  of  mys 
tery  and  pledges,  the  Baron  had  made  this  very 
hard  for  him. 

"  None  of  these  things,"  he  said  quietly,  "  I 
may  tell  you  or  anyone." 

Diane  leaned  forward  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  arm. 

"  Philip,"  she  whispered  with  dark,  tragic  eyes 
fixed  upon  his  face,  "who  —  who  shot  the  bullet 
that  night  ?  Do  you  know  ? " 


282        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

' Yes,"  said  Philip.  "I  —  I  am  very  sorry. 
I  think  I  know  —  " 

"  You  will  not  tell  me?" 

"No." 

Diane  drew  back  with  a  shudder. 

"  I  know  the  answers  to  all  my  questions ! "  she 
said  in  a  low  voice,  and  there  was  a  great  horror 
in  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  Philip,  Philip,  go !  If  —  if  you 
could  have  told  me  something  different  — 

"  Is  it  useless  to  ask  you  to  trust  me,  Diane?  " 

"  Go!  "  said  Diane,  trembling. 

By  the  swamp  the  gray  ghosts  fell  to  dancing 
with  locked,  transparent  hands. 

Blood-red  the  sun  glimmered  through  the  pines 
and  struck  fire  from  a  gray,  cold  world. 

Philip  bent  and  caught  her  hands,  quietly  mas 
terful. 

"What  you  may  think,  Diane,"  he  said  un 
steadily,  "  I  do  not  know.  But  part  of  the  answer 
to  every  question  is  my  love  for  you.  No — you 
must  listen!  We  have  crossed  swords  and  held 
a  merry  war,  but  through  it  all  ran  the  strong 
thread  of  friendship.  We  must  not  break  it 
now.  Do  you  know  what  I  thought  that  day  on 
the  lake  when  I  saw  you  coming  through  the 
trees?  I  said,  I  have  found  her!  God  willing, 
here  is  the  perfect  mate  with  whom  I  must  go 
through  life,  hand  in  hand,  if  I  am  to  live  fully 
and  die  at  the  last  having  drained  the  cup  of  life 


The  Moon  Above  the  Marsh    283 

to  the  bottom.  If,  knowing  this,  you  can  not 
trust  me  and  will  tell  me  so  —  " 

But  Ronador's  eloquent  voice  rang  again  in  the 
girl's  ears.  Her  glance  met  Philip's  inexorably. 
And  there  was  something  in  her  eyes  that  hurt 
him  cruelly.  For  an  instant  his  face  flamed 
scarlet,  then  it  grew  white  and  hard  and  very 
grim. 

"Go!"  said  Diane  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

With  no  final  word  of  extenuation  Philip  went. 

Diane  stumbled  hurriedly  through  the  trees  to 
Keela's  camp  and  touched  the  Indian  girl  fran 
tically  upon  the  shoulder. 

"Keela,"  she  cried  desperately,  "wake!  wake! 
It's  sunrise.  Let  us  go  somewhere — anywhere 

—  and  leave  this  treacherous  world  of  civilization 
behind  us.    I  —  I  am  tired  of  it  all." 

Keela  stared. 

"Very  well,"  she  said  sedately  a  little  later. 

'  You  and  I,  Diane,  we  will  journey  to  my  home 

in  the  Glades.    There — as  it  was  a  century  back 

—  so  it  is  now." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  WIND  OF  THE  OKEECHOBEE 

QOUTHWARD  along  the  beautiful  Kissim- 
fc^  mee  river,  where  the  fabled  young  grandee 
of  Spain  kissed  the  plaintive  Seminole  maid, 
rumbled  the  great  green  van  and  the  camp  of 
Keela.  Southward,  unremittingly  protective, 
followed  the  silent  music-machine.  For  though 
the  dear  folly  and  humor  were  things  of  the  past, 
like  Arcadia,  a  true  knight  may  surely  see  that 
his  willful  lady  comes  to  no  harm  though  he  must 
worship  from  afar.  And  at  length  they  came 
to  the  final  fringe  of  civilization  edging  the  Ever 
glades  where,  despite  repeated  protests,  Johnny 
must  stay  behind  with  the  cumbrous  van. 

And  now  the  Southern  woods  were  gloriously 
a-riot  with  blossoms;  with  dogwood  and  mag 
nolia,  with  wild  tropical  blossoms  of  orange  and 
scarlet;, and  the  moon  hung  wild  and  beautiful 
above  the  Everglades. 

"Little  Spring  Moon!"  said  Keela  softly  in 
Seminole. 

Diane  thought  suddenly  of  a  late  moon  above 
a  marsh. 

"  He — he  can  not  follow  me  into  those  terrible 

284 


The  Wind  of  the  Okeechobee    285 

wilds  ahead,"  she  thought  with  sudden  bitterness. 
"  I  shall  be  free  at  last  from  his  dreadful  spying." 

At  sunrise  one  morning  they  bade  Johnny 
adieu  and  struck  off  boldly  with  the  Indian  wagon 
into  the  melancholy  world  of  the  Everglades. 

"  It  is  better,"  said  Keela  gravely,  "  if  you 
wear  the  Seminole  clothes  you  wore  at  Sherrill's. 
They  are  in  the  wagon.  My  people  love  not  the 
white  man." 

"But — "  stammered  Diane. 

"They  will  think,"  explained  Keela  shyly, 
"that  you  are  a  beautiful  daughter  of  the  sun 
from  the  wilderness  of  O-kee-fee-ne-kee.  You 
are  brown  and  beautiful.  Such,  they  tell,  was 
my  grandmother.  It  is  a  legend  of  my  mother's 
people,  but  I  do  not  think,"  added  Keela  majes 
tically,  "  that  the  wild  and  beautiful  tribe  of  mys 
tery  who  were  sons  and  daughters  of  the  Sun, 
are  half  so  beautiful  as  you ! " 

To  the  dull  baying  of  the  alligators  in  the  saw 
grass,  and  the  melancholy  croak  of  the  great  blue 
herons,  Keela's  wagon  penetrated  the  weird  and 
terrible  wilds  of  the  Everglades,  winding  by  the 
gloomy  border  of  swamps  where  the  deadly  moc 
casin  dwelt  beneath  the  darkling  shadow  of 
cypress,  on  by  ponds  thick  with  lilies  and  tall 
ghostly  grasses,  over  tangled  underbrush,  past 
water-dark  jungles  of  dead  trees  where  the  savage 
cascade  of  brush  and  vine  and  fallen  branches  had 


286        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

woven  a  weird,  wild  lacery  among  the  trees, 
through  mud  and  saw  grass,  past  fertile  islands 
and  lagoons  of  rush  and  flag — a  trackless  water- 
prairie  of  uninhabitable  wilds  which  to  Keela's 
keen  and  beautiful  eyes  held  the  mysteriously 
blazed  home-trail  of  the  Seminole. 

As  Keela  knew  the  trail,  so  surely  from  the 
rank,  tropical  vegetation  of  the  great  Southern 
marshland  she  knew  the  art  of  wresting  food. 
Bitter  wild  oranges,  pawpaws,  oily  palmetto  cab 
bage,  wild  cassava,  starred  gorgeously  now  with 
orange  colored  blossoms,  and  guavas ;  these,  with 
the  wild  turkeys  and  mallard  ducks,  turtles  and 
squirrels  and  the  dark  little  Florida  quail  with 
.which  the  wild  abounded,  gave  them  varied  choice. 

Cheerfully  fording  miles  of  mud  and  water,  his 
discomforts  not  a  few,  came  Philip,  greatly  dis 
turbed  by  the  incomprehensible  whims  of  his  lady. 
By  day  he  followed  close  upon  the  trail  of  the 
canvas  wagon,  patterning  his  conquest  of  the 
aquatic  wilderness  about  him  after  that  of  Keela, 
hunting  the  wild  duck  and  the  turkey  and  dis 
carding  the  bitter  orange  with  aggrieved  disgust. 
And  if  Keela  occasionally  found  a  brace  of  ducks 
by  the  camp  fire  or  a  bass  in  a  nest  of  green 
palmetto,  she  wisely  said  nothing,  sensing  the 
barrier  between  these  two  and  wondering  greatly. 

By  night  when  the  great  morass  lay  in  white 
and  sinister  tangle  under  the  wild  spring  moon, 


The  Wind  of  the  Okeechobee   287 

when  the  dark  and  dreadful  swamps  were  rife 
with  horrible  croaks  and  snaps,  the  whirring  of 
the  wings  of  waterfowl  or  the  noise  of  a  disturbed 
puff  adder,  Philip  stretched  himself  upon  the  seat 
of  the  music-machine  and  slept  through  the  twi 
light  and  the  early  evening.  When  the  camp 
ahead,  glimmering  brightly  through  the  live  oaks, 
was  silent,  Philip  awoke  and  watched  and  smoked, 
a  solitary  sentinel  in  the  terrible  melancholy  of 
the  moonlit  waste  of  ooze  and  dead  leaf  and 
sinister  crawling  life. 

So  they  came  in  time  to  the  plains  of  Okeecho 
bee  and  thence  to  the  wild,  dark  waters  of  the 
great  inland  sea  —  a  wild,  bleak  sea,  mirroring 
cloud  and  the  night-lamp  of  the  Everglades.  The 
wind  wafting  across  on  night-tipped  wings  rip 
pled  the  great  water  shield  and  brought  its  mes 
sage  to  the  silent  figure  on  the  shore. 

"  So,"  sighed  the  wind  of  the  Okeechobee,  "  he 
still  follows!" 

"  Yes,"  said  Diane,  shuddering  at  the  howl  of  a 
cat  owl,  "  he  has  dared  even  that ! " 

"  Brave  and  resolute  to  plunge  into  the  wilds 
with  a  music-machine!  Would  he,  think  you, 
dare  all  this  for  the  sake  of — spying? " 

"I  —  I  do  not  know.  I  have  wondered  greatly. 
Still  he  has  dared  much  for  it  before." 

"  He  asked  you  to  remember — his  love  —  " 

"I  —  I  dare  not  think  of  it.    For  every  admis- 


288        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

sion  he  made  that  night  by  the  marsh  tallied  with 
the  terrible  tale  of  Ronador.  I  had  thought  he 
followed  and  watched  by  night  for  another 
reason." 

"What  reason?" 

"I  —  do  not  know.    A  finer,  holier  reason  — 

The  wind  fluttered  and  fell,  and  rose  again  with 
a  plaintive  sigh. 

'You  know,  but  you  will  not  tell!" 

"  It  —  it  may  be  so.  He  is  false  —  he  is  false ! " 
cried  the  voice  of  the  girl's  sore  heart ;  "  a  false 
sentry  and  a  false  protector.  I  can  not  bear  it. 
Philip!  Philip!  It  was  Themar's  knife  —  and 
the  bullet  was  his  —  and  all  that  seemed  fine  and 
noble  was  black  and  false ! " 

*  You  will  not  trust  him  as  he  begged!" 

"  I  can  not.  For  he  will  not  tell  me  the  reason 
for  all  these  things!" 

"You  will  wed  Prince  Ronador?  " 

"  Yes.    It  is  the  one  way  out." 

"Why?" 

"  He  is  a  gallant  lover  and  the  victim  of  much 
that  is  vile  and  unfair." 
'Yes — he  has  said  so." 

"He  has  suffered  much  through  me." 

"Yes." 

"  And  he  is  honorable  and  devoted." 

"It  may  be." 

"  He  told  me  all,  though  he  found  it  difficult." 

"  He  was  not  bound  by  a  pledge." 


The  Wind  of  the  Okeechobee   289 

"No." 

"Well,  there  is  wisdom,  the  wisdom  of  the 
world,  in  your  choice.  Flashing  jewels,  robes  of 
state,  maids  of  honor  —  " 

"  These  things,"  spurned  Diane  with  beautiful 
insolence,  "  I  may  buy  with  gold." 

"  Ah ! "  crooned  the  wind,  "  but  the  vassalage  of 
this  elfin  nation  that  plays  at  empire,  the  romance 
and  adventure  of  an  imperial  court!  And  when 
the  mad  King  dies  and  the  Prince  Regent,  then 
Ronador  will  be  king — " 

"  I  have  thought  of  it  all.  I  can  not  go  back 
to  the  old  shallow  life  with  Aunt  Agatha.  No! 
No!  And  I  am  very  lonely.  If  in  the  days  to 
come  wind  and  moon  and  the  call  of  the  wilder 
ness  stir  my  gypsy  blood  to  rebellion  —  if  I  am 
ever  to  forget  —  " 

"What  must  you  forget?" 

"  It  was  foolish  to  speak  so.  I  do  not  know. 
Then  when  the  call  of  the  wildwood  comes  I  must 
have  crowded  days  and  fevered  gayety  to  hush 
it.  And  surely  this  will  come  to  me  in  the  court 
of  Ronador." 

The  wild  moon  drifted  behind  a  cloud,  the  sea 
darkened,  something  huge  and  shadowy  lumbered 
down  to  the  water  and  splashed  heavily  away, 
the  cat  owl  hooted.  A  mist  drooped  trailing 
fingers  over  the  water  as  the  wind  died  away. 

A  profoundly  dreary  setting  for  a  dream  of 
empire ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

UNDER  THE  LIVE  OAKS 

"QEE1"  said  Keela  shyly.  "It  is  the  camp 
IO  of  my  people." 

It  lay  ahead,  a  fire-blot  in  the  darkling  swamp, 
a  primitive  mirage  of  primitive  folk,  of  palmetto 
wigwams  and  log-wheel  fires  among  the  live  oaks 
of  a  lonely  island. 

Keela's  wagon  presently  forded  a  shallow  creek 
and  crossed  an  island  plain.  Thence  it  came  by 
a  winding  road  to  the  village,  where,  with  the 
halting  of  the  wagon,  the  travelers  became  the 
hub  of  a  vast  and  friendly  wheel  of  excitement. 

Hospitable  hands  were  already  leading  Keela's 
horses  away  when  Mr.  Poynter  rode  sedately  into 
camp  and,  descending  to  terra  firma  in  the  light 
of  the  nearest  camp  fire,  guilefully  proceeded  to 
assure  himself  of  a  welcome  and  immediate  atten 
tion  by  spectacular  means;  he  simply  unwound 
the  hullabaloo. 

Cymbals  clashed,  the  drum  cannonaded  fear 
fully  and  to  the  sprightly  measures  of  "  The 
Glowworm,"  the  Indians  who  had  collected  about 
Keela's  wagon  to  stare  at  Diane,  decamped  in  a 
body  to  the  side  of  Mr.  Poynter,  who  smiled  and 

290 


Under  the  Live  Oaks  291 

proceeded  in  pantomime  to  make  friends  with  all 
about  him. 

This,  by  virtue  of  the  entertaining  music- 
machine,  was  not  difficult.  Having  exhausted  the 
repertoire  of  the  hullabaloo,  he  initiated  the  tur- 
baned  warriors  into  the  mystery  of  unwinding 
tunes,  thereby  cementing  the  friendship  forever. 

The  general  din  and  excitement  grew  fearful. 
Presently  the  Thunder-Man  was  warmly  as 
signed  a  wigwam,  made  of  palmetto  and  the 
skins  of  wild  animals  above  a  split-log  floor,  to 
which  he  retired  at  the  heels  of  Sho-caw,  a  copper- 
colored  young  warrior  who  had  learned  a  little 
English  from  the  traders. 

Already  rumor  was  rife  among  the  staring  tribe 
that  Diane  had  strayed  from  the  legendary  clan 
of  beautiful  Indians  in  the  O-kee-fee-ne-kee  wil 
derness.  The  assignment  of  her  wigwam,  there 
fore,  had  been  made  with  marked  respect. 

Here,  as  the  Indian  camp  settled  into  quiet  and 
the  fires  died  lower,  as  the  wild  night  sounds  of 
the  Glades  awoke  in  the  marsh  outside,  Diane  lay 
still  and  wakeful  and  a  little  frightened.  Wil 
derness  and  Seminole  were  still  primeval.  The 
world  seemed  very  far  away.  The  thought  of 
the  music-machine  brought  with  it  somehow  a 
feeling  of  security. 

With  the  broad  white  daylight,  courage  re 
turned.  From  her  wigwam  Diane  watched  the 


292        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

silent  village,  wrapped  in  fog,  wake  to  the  busy 
life  of  the  Glades.  Somber-eyed  little  Indian 
lads  carried  water  and  gathered  wood,  fires 
brightened,  there  was  a  pleasant  smell  of  pine 
in  the  morning  air.  Later,  by  Keela's  fire,  she 
furtively  watched  Philip  ride  forth  with  a  band 
of  hunters. 

So  at  last  in  the  heart  of  the  wildwood,  among 
primitive  folk  whose  customs  had  not  varied  for  a 
century,  Diane  drank  deep  of  the  wild,  free,  open 
life  her  gypsy  heart  had  craved.  There  were 
times  when  a  great  peace  dwarfed  the  memory  of 
the  moon  above  the  marsh ;  there  were  times  when 
the  thought  of  Ronador  and  Philip  sent  her  rid 
ing  wildly  across  the  plains  with  Keela;  there 
were  still  other  times  when  a  nameless  disquiet 
welled  up  within  her,  some  furtive  distrust  of  the 
gypsy  wildness  of  her  blood.  But  in  the  main 
the  days  were  quiet  and  peaceful. 

"  It  is  a  wild  world  of  varied  color  and  activity," 
she  wrote  to  Ann.  "The  trailing  air  plants  in 
the  trees  beside  my  wigwam  weave  a  dense,  tropi 
cal  jungle  of  shadow  shot  with  sunlight.  Keela's 
wigwam  lies  but  a  stone's  throw  beyond.  It  is 
lined  with  beaded  trinkets,  curious  carven  things 
of  cypress,  pots  of  dye  made  of  berries  and  barks, 
and  pottery  which  she  has  patterned  after  the 
relics  in  the  sand  mounds.  There  is  an  old  chief 
with  all  the  terrible  pathos  of  a  vanishing  race 


Under  the  Live  Oaks  293 

in  his  eyes.  I  find  in  his  wistful  dignity  an  ele 
ment  of  tragedy.  He  is  very  kind  to  Keela  and 
talks  much  of  her  in  his  quaint  broken  English. 

"  Moons  back,  he  declares,  when  E-shock-e- 
tom-isee,  the  great  Creator,  made  the  world  of 
men  by  scattering  seeds  in  a  river  valley,  of  those 
who  grew  from  the  sand,  some  went  to  the  river 
and  washed  too  pale  and  weak — the  white  man; 
some,  enough — the  strong  red  man;  some  washed 
not  at  all  —  the  shiftless  black  man.  But  Keela 
came  from  none  of  these. 

"  Ann,  the  squaws  are  hideous!  Their  clothes, 
an  indescribable  potpourri  of  savage  superstition 
and  stray  inklings  (such  as  a  disfiguring  bang 
of  hair  across  the  forehead,  a  Psyche  knot  and  a 
full  skirt )  from  the  white  man's  world  of  fashion 
—  years  back.  The  pounds  and  pounds  of  bead 
necklaces  they  wear  give  the  savage  touch.  I 
don't  wonder  Keela's  delicate  soul  rebelled  and 
drove  her  to  the  barbaric  costume  of  a  chief.  It 
is  infinitely  more  picturesque  and  beautiful. 

"  There  are  thrilling  camp  fire  tales  of  Osceola, 
the  brilliant,  handsome  young  Seminole  chief  who 
blazoned  his  name  over  the  pages  of  Florida  his 
tory,  but  here  among  Osceola's  kinsmen,  pages 
are  unnecessary.  The  sagas  of  the  tribe  are 
handed  down  from  mouth  to  mouth  to  stir  the 
youth  to  deeds  of  daring.  Keela,  like  Osceola, 
had  a  white  father  and  a  Seminole  mother.  Ann, 


294        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

I  sometimes  wonder  what  opportunity  might  have 
done  for  Osceola.  As  great  as  Napoleon,  some 
one  said.  What  might  opportunity  do  for  this 
strange,  exotic  flower  of  Osceola's  people?  She 
has  brains  and  beauty  and  instinctive  grace 
enough  to  startle  a  continent.  I  am  greatly 
tempted.  Ann,  I  beg  of  you,  don't  breathe  any 
of  this  to  Aunt  Agatha.  Some  day  I  may  carry 
Keela  away  to  the  cities  of  the  North  for  an 
experiment  quite  my  own.  Her  delicate  beauty 
— her  gravity  —  her  shy,  sweet  dignity,  hold  me 
powerfully.  It  would  make  life  well  worth  the 
living — the  regeneration  of  a  life  like  hers. 

"  No,  I  am  not  mad.  If  I  am,  it  is  a  delicious 
madness  indeed,  this  craving  to  do  something  for 
some  one  else.  I  need  the  discipline  of  thinking 
for  another. 

"  I  don't  know  when  you  will  get  this.  Once 
in  a  while  an  Indian  rides  forth  to  civilization,  and 
this  letter  will  perforce  await  such  a  messenger. 
I  wrote  to  Aunt  Agatha  from  the  little  hamlet 
where  Johnny  is  waiting  with  the  van.  I  know 
she  is  fussing. 

'You  wrote  me  something  in  one  of  your 
letters,  that  Dick  and  Carl  were  planning  to 
camp  and  hunt  wild  turkeys  in  the  Glades.  Let 
me  know  what  luck  they  had  and  all  the  news. 

"  Ever  yours, 

"Diane." 


Under  the  Live  Oaks  295 

Now,  if  Diane  proved  readily  adaptable  to 
the  wild  life  about  her,  no  less  did  Philip.  At 
night  he  smoked  comfortably  by  his  camp  fire, 
unwound  the  hullabaloo  upon  request  or  lent  it  to 
Sho-caw.  He  rode  hard  and  fearlessly  with  the 
warriors,  hunted  bear  and  alligator,  acquired  un 
common  facility  in  the  making  of  sof-ka,  the 
tribal  stew,  and  helped  in  the  tanning  of  pelts 
and  the  building  of  cypress  canoes. 

Presently  the  unmistakable  whir  of  a  sewing 
machine  which  Sho-caw  had  bought  from  a  trader, 
floated  one  morning  from  Philip's  wigwam. 
Keela  reported  literally  that  Mr.  Poynter  had 
said  he  was  building  himself  a  much-needed  tunic, 
though  he  had  experienced  considerable  difficulty 
in  the  excavation  of  the  sleeves. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

IN  THE  GLADES 

WHAT  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Carl? "    demanded    Dick   Sherrill    irri 
tably.    "  If  I'd  known  you  were  going  to  moon 
under  a  tree  and  whistle  through  that  infernal 
flute  half  the  time,  I'd  never  have  suggested  camp 
ing.    Are  you  coming  along  to-night  or  not?" 
"No.     I've  murdered  enough   wild   turkeys 


now." 


Sherrill  plunged  off  swampwards  with  the 
guides. 

Left  to  himself  Carl  laid  aside  his  flute  and  sat 
very  quiet,  staring  at  the  cloud-haunted  moon 
which  hung  above  the  Glades.  He  had  been 
drinking  and  gaming  heavily  for  weeks.  Now 
floundering  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  mire  of 
debt  and  dissipation,  forced  to  a  fevered  alertness 
by  distrust  of  all  about  him,  he  found  the  weird 
gloom  of  the  Everglades  of  a  piece  with  the  black 
ness  of  his  mood.  For  days  he  had  taken  wild 
chances  that  horrified  Sherrill  inexpressibly; 
drinking  clear  whiskey  in  the  burning  white 
tropical  sunlight,  tramping  off  into  trackless 
wilds  without  a  guide,  conducting  himself,  as 

296 


In  the  Glades  297 

Sherrill  aggrievedly  put  it,  with  the  general  irra 
tionality  of  a  drunken  madman. 

"  The  climate  or  a  moccasin  will  get  you  yet ! " 
exclaimed  Sherrill  heatedly.  "  And  it  will  serve 
you  right.  Or  you'll  get  lost.  And  to  lose  your 
way  in  this  infernal  swamp  is  sure  death.  They 
used  to  enter  runaway  niggers  who  came  here, 
on  the  undertaker's  list.  I  swear  I  won't  tell  your 
aunt  if  you  do  disappear.  That's  a  job  for  a 
deaf  mute.  And  only  yesterday  I  saw  you  corner 
a  moccasin  and  tantalize  him  until  the  chances 
were  a  hundred  to  one  that  he'd  get  you,  and 
then  you  blazed  your  gun  down  his  throat  and 
walked  away  laughing.  Faugh!" 

With  the  perversity  of  reckless  madmen,  how 
ever,  Carl  went  his  foolhardy  way  unharmed. 
But  his  nights  were  fevered  and  sleepless  and 
haunted  by  a  face  which  never  left  him,  and  the 
locked  hieroglyphics  on  Themar's  cuff  danced 
dizzily  before  his  eyes. 

Carl  presently  lighted  a  lantern,  seated  him 
self  at  the  camp  table  and  fell  moodily  to  poring 
over  the  tormenting  hieroglyphics  which  had 
haunted  him  for  days. 

The  night  was  cloudy.  Only  at  infrequent  in 
tervals  the  moon  soared  turbulently  out  from  thd 
somber  cloud-hills  and  glinted  brightly  through 
the  live  oaks  overhead. 

Carl  had  been  drinking  heavily  since  the  morn- 


298        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

ing,  with  vicious  recourse  to  the  flute  when  his 
mood  was  darkest.  Now  he  felt  strung  to  a 
curious  electric  tension,  with  pulse  and  head 
throbbing  powerfully  like  a  racing  engine.  Still 
there  was  satanic  keenness  in  his  mind  to-night, 
a  capacity  for  concentration  that  surprised  him. 
Somewhere  in  his  head,  taut  like  an  overstrung 
ligament  or  the  string  of  a  great  violin,  some 
thing  sinister  droned  and  hummed  and  subtly 
threatened.  For  the  hundredth  time  he  made  a 
systematic  list  of  recurrent  symbols,  noting  again 
the  puzzling  similarity  of  the  twisted  signs,  but 
no  sign  appeared  frequently  enough  to  do  vowel 
work. 

To-night  somehow  the  cipher  mocked  and  gibed 
and  goaded  him  to  frenzy.  The  mad  angles  point 
ing  up  and  down  and  right  and  left — it  was 
impossible  to  sort  them.  They  danced  and 
blurred  and  crept  irresistibly  into  the  wrong  list. 

And  in  error  came  solution.  Carl  glanced  in 
tently  at  the  jumbled  list  and  fell  feverishly  to 
working  from  a  different  viewpoint.  From  the 
cryptic  snarl  came  presently  the  single  English 
word  in  the  cipher  —  his  name.  The  keen  sus 
picion  of  his  hot  brain  had,  at  last,  been  ri#ht. 
For  every  letter  in  the  alphabet,  four  symbols 
had  been  used  interchangeably  but  whether  they 
pointed  up  or  down  or  right  or  left,  their  signifi- 


In  the  Glades  299 

cance  was  the  same.  There  were  no  word 
divisions. 

When  at  last  Ronador's  frantic  message  to  the 
Baron  lay  before  him,  Carl  was  grateful  for  the 
quiet  monastery  days  in  Houdania  with  Father 
Joda.  They  had  given  him  an  inkling  of  the 
language. 

Some  of  the  message,  to  be  sure,  was  missing 
—  for  Themar  had  been  interrupted  —  and  some 
of  it  unintelligible.  But  clear  and  cold  before  his 
fevered  eyes  lay  the  words  which  marked  him 
irrevocably  for  the  knife  of  a  hired  assassin. 
There  was  no  suggestion  of  sealing  his  lips  with 
gold,  as  in  a  drunken  moment  he  had  suggested 
in  his  letter.  The  seal  of  death  was  safer  than 
the  seal  of  gold.  Seeing  the  sinister  command 
there  before  him,  even  though  the  knowledge  was 
not  new,  Carl  felt  a  nameless  fury  rise  in  his  reel 
ing  brain.  He  must  live — live  —  live!  he  told 
himself  fiercely.  With  the  vivid,  lovely  face  of 
Keela  tormenting  him  to  sensual  conquest,  he 
must  live  no  matter  what  the  price!  How  safe 
guard  his  life  from  the  men  who  were  hunting 
him? 

What  if  Diane  were  to  —  die?  Carl  shuddered. 
Then  the  sirocco  of  fear  and  hate  centering  about 
her,  would  blow  itself  out  forever  and  his  own  life 
would  be  safe,  for  the  secret  would  be  worth 
less.  These  men — Tregar,  Ronador,  Themar — 


300        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

scrupled  for  vastly  different  reasons  to  take  the 
life  of  a  woman. 

Money !  Money !  He  must  have  money !  And 
if  Diane  were  to  die,  the  great  estate  of  Norman 
Westfall  would  revert  to  him  of  course;  there 
was  no  other  heir.  Why  had  he  not  thought  of 
that  before?  In  that  instant  he  knew  that  barely 
a  year  ago  the  treacherous  thought  would  have 
been  for  him  impossible,  that  slowly,  insistently 
he  had  been  sliding  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
dark  abyss  of  degradation  where  all  things  are 
possible. 

There  had  been  intrigue  and  dishonor  of  a  sort 
in  the  letter  to  Houdania,  but  not  this  —  Oh, 
God!  not  this  horrible,  beckoning  Circe  with  in 
famous  eyes  and  scarlet  robes  luring  him  to  the 
uttermost  pit  of  the  black  Inferno. 

But  Diane  had  flashed  and  mocked  him  as  a 
child  when  he  was  sensitive  and  lonely.  She  had 
always  mocked  the  memory  of  his  mother. 
Brown  and  lovely  his  cousin's  face  rose  before 
him  in  a  willful  moment  of  tenderness  —  and  then 
from  the  shadows  came  again  the  flash  of  topaz 
and  Venetian  lamps  and  the  lovely  face  of  Keela. 

Something  in  Carl's  haunted  brain  snapped. 
With  a  groan  of  horror  and  suffering,  he  pitched 
forward  upon  the  ground,  breathing  Philip 
Poynter's  name  like  an  invocation  against  the 
things  of  evil  crowding  horribly  about  him. 


In  the  Glades  301 

It  was  Dick  Sherrill  who  at  last  found  him. 

"Nick!"  he  called  in  horror  to  one  of  the 
guides.  "For  God's  sake  bring  some  brandy! 
No!  he's  had  too  much  of  that  already.  Water! 
Water  —  can't  somebody  hurry ! " 

"Leave  him  to  me,  Mr.  Sherrill!"  said  Nick 
with  quiet  authority.  And  bending  over  the  mo 
tionless  figure  under  the  oak,  he  gently  loosened 
the  flannel  shirt  from  the  throat,  laid  a  wet  cloth 
upon  the  forehead  and  fell  to  rubbing  the  rigid 
limbs. 

Presently,  with  a  long,  shuddering  sigh,  Carl 
opened  his  eyes,  stared  at  the  scared  circle  of 
faces  about  him  and  instantly  tried  to  rise. 

"Don't,  don't,  Carl,"  exploded  Dick  Sherrill 
solicitously.  "  Lie  still,  man !  I  was  afraid  some 
thing  would  get  you." 

Carl  fell  back  indifferently. 

Presently  with  a  slight  smile  he  sat  up  again. 

"  I'm  all  right  now,  Dick,"  he  insisted.  "  It's 
nothing  at  all.  I've  had  something  like  it  once 
before.  Don't  mention  it  to  my  aunt.  She'd 
likely  fuss." 

Dick  readily  promised. 

"  Nevertheless,"  he  insisted,  "  we're  going  to 
break  camp  in  the  morning.  This  infernal  bog's 
got  on  my  nerves.  There  are  more  creepy,  oozy 
things  in  that  cypress  swamp  over  there  than  a 
man  can  afford  to  meet  in  the  dark.  To  the  devil 


302        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

with  your  wild  turkeys,  Nick!  Quail  and  duck 
are  good  enough  for  me.'* 

The  camp  wagons  drove  back  to  Palm  Beach 
in  the  morning.  Carl  was  very  quiet  and  evaded 
SherrilTs  anxious  eyes.  He  seemed  to  be  brood 
ing  morosely  over  some  inner  problem  which  fre 
quently  furrowed  his  forehead  and  made  him  very 
restless. 

"Cheer  up!"  exclaimed  Dick  reassuringly. 
'You'll  feel  better  when  you  get  a  shower  and 
some  other  clothes.  As  for  me,  I'm  going  to  hunt 
field  mice  and  ground  doves  from  now  on.  Lord, 
Carl,  I'll  never  forget  that  beastly  swamp.  Did 
I  tell  you  that  last  night,  after  all  our  discom 
fort,  I  got  nothing  but  a  smelly  buzzard  ?  Ugh ! " 
Dick's  hunting  interest  was  steadily  on  the  wane. 
He  finally  came  down  to  birds  and  bumble  bees, 
though  when  they  started  he  had  talked  magnifi 
cently  of  alligators  and  bears. 

Carl  laughed  and  relapsed  into  brooding 
silence. 

A  little  later  on  the  Sherrill  porch  he  found 
himself  listening  with  tired  patience  to  Aunt 
Agatha's  opinion  of  camping  in  the  Everglades. 

"What  with  your  Esquimaux,"  she  puffed 
tearfully,  "  and  the  immigrant  who  wasn't  an 
immigrant  —  and  I  must  say  this  once,  Carl,  for 
all  I  promised  to  ask  no  further  questions,  that 
you  never  attempted  to  explain  that  performance 
to  my  satisfaction — the  young  man  with  the 


In  the  Glades  303 

eye,  you  know,  and  the  immigrant  with  his  feet 
on  the  lace  spread  —  to  say  nothing  at  all  of 
Diane's  losing  herself  in  the  flat-woods  over  a 
cart  wheel  of  flame,  I  wonder  I'm  not  crazy,  I 
do  indeed!  And  riding  off  to  Jacksonville  with 
the  Indian  girl,  for  all  I've  lain  awake  night  after 
night  seeing  her  scalp  lying  by  the  roadside!  It 
was  bad  enough  to  have  you  in  those  horrible 
Glades,  but  Diane  —  " 

"Aunt  Agatha,"  said  Carl  patiently,  "what  in 
thunder  are  you  driving  at  anyway? " 

"Why,"  said  Aunt  Agatha  in  aggrieved  dis 
tress,  "Diane's  gone  and  left  Johnny  at  some 
funny  little  hamlet  and  she's  gone  into  the  Ever 
glades  to  a  Seminole  village  with  the  Indian  girl. 
There's  a  letter  in  my  room.  You  can  read  for 
yourself." 

Aunt  Agatha  burst  into  tears.  Carl  patiently 
essayed  a  comforting  word  of  advice  and  followed 
Dick  indoors  to  seek  relief  in  less  calamitous 
showers.  Before  he  did  so,  however,  he  read  his 
cousin's  letter. 

For  that  night  and  the  night  following  Carl  did 
not  sleep.  On  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  after 
a  careless  inquiry  he  went  to  West  Palm  Beach 
and  interviewed  some  traders  who  were  reported 
to  be  on  the  eve  of  an  expedition  into  the  Ever 
glades  with  a  wagonload  of  scarlet  calico  and 
beads  to  trade  for  Indian  products. 

The  fourth  day  he  was  missing. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

IN  PHILIP'S  WIGWAM 

FOR  hours  now,  Carl  had  lain  hidden  in  the 
waist-high  grass,  staring  at  the  Seminole 
camp.  The  sun  had  set  in  a  wild  red  glory  in  the 
west,  staining  dank  pool  and  swamp  with  the 
color  of  blood.  The  twilight  came  and  with  it 
the  eerie  hoot  of  the  great  owls  whirring  by  in  the 
darkness.  Unseen  things  crept  silently  by.  Once 
a  great  winged  wraith  of  ghostly  white  flapped 
by  with  a  croak,  a  snowy  heron,  winging  like  a 
shape  of  Wrath  Incarnate,  above  the  crouching 
man  in  the  grass.  The  wheel  fires  of  the  Semi- 
noles  flared  among  the  live  oaks,  silhouetting 
dusky  figures  and  palmetto  wigwams. 

By  the  swamp  the  night  darkened.  Carl  had 
thrown  himself  upon  the  grass  now,  his  white, 
haggard  face  buried  upon  his  arm.  Back  there 
scarcely  a  mile  to  the  east  lay  the  camp  of  the 
traders.  In  the  morning  they  would  ride  into  the 
Indian  camp  saddled  with  bright  beads  and  col 
ored  calicoes.  In  the  morning — Carl  shuddered 
and  lay  very  quiet,  fighting  again  the  ghastly  tor 
ment  that  had  racked  and  driven  him  into  the 
melancholy  solitude  of  the  Everglades.  Now  the 
firelit  palmetto  roof  of  the  wigwam  he  knew  to 

304 


In  Philip's  Wigwam  305 

be  Diane's  seemed  somehow,  to  his  distorted 
fancy,  redder  than  the  others  —  the  color  of 
blood.  There,  too,  was  the  wigwam  of  Keela, 
bringing  taunting  desire. 

A  crowd  of  Seminoles  rode  into  camp  and,  dis 
mounting,  led  their  horses  away.  Carl  watched 
them  gather  about  the  steaming  sof-ka  kettles  on 
the  fires,  handing  the  spoon  from  mouth  to  mouth. 
One,  a  tall,  broad  young  warrior  in  tunic  and 
trousers  and  a  broad  sombrero  —  disappeared  in 
a  wigwam  on  the  fringe  of  camp. 

A  great  wave  of  dizziness  and  burning  nausea 
swept  over  Carl.  Again  he  was  conscious  of  the 
taut,  over-strung  ligament  droning,  droning  in 
his  head.  The  camp  ahead  became  a  meaningless 
blur  of  sinister  scarlet  fire,  of  bloodred  wigwams 
and  dusky  figures  that  seemed  to  dance  and  lure 
and  mock.  The  wild  wind  that  bent  the  grasses, 
the  horrible  persistent  hoot  of  the  owl  in  the 
cypress  tree,  the  night  noises  of  the  black  swamp 
to  the  west,  all  mocked  and  urged  and  whispered 
of  things  unspeakable. 

The  camp  fell  quiet.  A  black  moonless  sky 
brooded  above  the  dying  camp  fires.  Not  until 
this  wild  world  of  swamp  and  Indian  seemed 
asleep  did  the  man  in  the  grass  stir. 

Silently  then  he  crept  forward  upon  hands  and 
knees  until  he  had  passed  the  first  of  the  Indian 
wigwams.  Here  he  dropped  for  a  silent  interval 


806        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

of  caution  into  shadow  and  lay  there  scarcely 
breathing.  On  toward  the  door  of  Diane's  shelter 
he  crept  and  once  more  lay  inert  and  quiet. 

Thunder  rumbled  disquietingly  off  to  the  east. 
The  wind  was  rising  over  the  Glades  with  a  vio 
lent  rustle  of  grass  and  leaves.  Now  that  his 
arm  was  nerved  at  last  to  its  terrible  task,  it 
behooved  him  to  hurry,  ere  the  rain  and  thunder 
stirred  the  camp. 

Noiselessly  he  crawled  forward  again.  As  he 
did  so  a  ragged  dart  of  lightning  glinted  evilly 
in  his  eyes.  With  a  leap  something  bounded  from 
the  shadows  behind  him  and  bore  him  to  the 
ground. 

In  the  thick  pall  of  darkness,  he  fought  with 
infernal  desperation.  The  rain  came  fiercely  in 
great  gusts  of  tearing  wind.  There  was  the 
strength  of  a  madman  to-night  in  Carl's  power 
ful  arms.  Relentlessly  he  bore  his  assailant  to  the 
ground  and  raised  his  knife.  The  lightning  flared 
brilliantly  again.  With  a  great,  choking  cry  of 
unutterable  horror,  Carl  fell  back  and  flung  his 
knife  away. 

"Oh,  God!"  he  cried,  shaking.  "Philip!" 
He  flung  himself  face  downward  on  the  ground 
in  an  agony  of  abasement. 

With  a  roar  of  wind  and  rain  the  hurricane  beat 
gustily  upon  the  wigwams.  Neither  man  seemed 
aware  of  it.  Philip,  his  face  white,  had  risen. 


In  Philip's  Wigwam  307 

Now  he  stood,  tall,  rigid,  towering  above  the  man 
upon  the  ground,  who  lay  motionless  save  for  the 
shuddering  gusts  of  self -revulsion  which  swept 
his  tortured  body. 

It  was  Philip  at  last  who  spoke.  Bending  he 
touched  the  other's  shoulder. 

"  Come,"  he  said.    "  Diane  must  not  know." 

"No,"  said  Carl  dully.  "No  —  she  must  not 
know.  I  —  I  am  not  myself,  Philip,  as  God  is 
my  witness  — "  He  choked,  unable  to  voice  the 
horror  in  his  heart.  A  man  may  not  raise  the 
knife  of  death  to  his  one  friend  and  speak  of  it 
with  comfort. 

Rising,  Carl  stumbled  blindly  in  the  wake  of 
the  tall  figure  striding  on  ahead.  They  halted  at 
last  at  a  wigwam  on  the  fringe  of  the  camp. 
Philip  lighted  a  lantern,  his  white  face  fixed  and 
expressionless  as  stone. 

'  You  were  going  to  kill  her ! "  he  said  abruptly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Carl.    He  shuddered. 

In  the  silence  the  storm  battered  fiercely  at  the 
wigwam. 

Philip  wheeled  furiously. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  he  demanded.  "  In  God's  name 
what  threatens  her,  that  even  here  in  these  God 
forsaken  wilds  she  is  not  safe?"  He  towered 
grim  above  the  crouching  man  on  the  floor  of  the 
wigwam.  "  For  months  I  have  guarded  her  day 
and  night,"  he  went  on  fiercely,  "  from  some 


308        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

damnable  mystery  and  treachery  that  has  almost 
muddled  my  life  beyond  repair.  What  is  it? 
Why  were  you  creeping  to  her  wigwam  to-night 
with  a  knife  in  your  hand?" 

Carl  flinched  beneath  the  blazing  anger  and 
contempt  in  his  eyes.  The  droning  in  his  head 
grew  suddenly  to  a  roar.  The  nausea  flamed 
again  over  his  body.  For  a  dizzy  interval  he  con 
fused  the  noise  of  the  storm  with  the  drone  in  his 
head.  Philip  seized  the  lantern  and  bending, 
stared  closely  into  his  white  face  and  haunted 
eyes. 

"  You're  ill!  "  he  said  gently. 

"Yes,"  said  Carl.  "I— I  think  so."  He  met 
Philip's  glance  of  sympathy  with  one  of  wild 
imploring.  It  was  the  man's  desperate  effort  to 
keep  this  one  friend  from  sweeping  hostilely  out 
of  his  life  on  the  wings  of  the  dark,  impious 
tempest  he  had  roused  himself.  To  his  disordered 
brain  nothing  else  mattered.  Philip  had  trusted 
him  always  — and  his  knife  had  menaced  Philip. 
In  Philip's  hand  lay  then,  though  he  could  not 
know  it,  the  future  of  the  man  at  his  feet.  In  the 
silence  Carl  fell  pitifully  to  shaking. 

"  Steady,  Carl ! "  exclaimed  Philip  kindly  and 
setting  the  lantern  down,  slipped  a  strong,  reas 
suring  arm  about  the  other's  shoulders. 

In  that  second  Philip  proved  his  caliber.  With 
big  inherent  generosity  he  saw  beyond  the  bloated 


In  Philip's  Wigwam  309 

mask  of  brutal  passion  and  resolve.  Miraculously 
he  understood  and  said  so.  This  white,  haggard 
face,  marked  cruelly  with  dissipation  and  suffer 
ing,  was  the  face  of  a  man  at  the  end  of  the  way. 
In  his  darkest  hour  he  needed  —  not  an  inexorable 
censor  —  but  a  friend.  With  heroic  effort  Philip 
put  aside  the  evil  memory  of  the  past  hour, 
though  his  sore  heart  rebelled. 

"  Carl,"  he  said  gently,  "  you've  got  to  pull  up. 
You've  come  to  the  wall  at  last.  You  know  what 
lies  on  the  other  side? " 

Carl  shuddered. 

"Yes,"  he  whispered.  "Madness — or — or 
suicide.  One  of  the  two  must  come  in  time." 

"Madness  or  suicide!"  repeated  Philip  slowly 
and  there  was  a  great  pity  in  his  eyes. 

Carl  caught  the  look  and  his  face  grew  whiter 
beneath  its  tan.  Chin  and  jaw  muscles  went  sud 
denly  taut. 

"Philip,"  he  choked,  unnerved  by  the  other's 
gentleness,  "you  don't — you  can't  mean — you 
believe  in  me — yet?" 

'Yes,"  said  Philip  steadily.  "God  help  me, 
I  do." 

Carl  flung  himself  upon  the  floor,  torn  by 
great  dry  sobs  of  agony.  Shaking,  Philip  turned 
away.  Presently  Carl  grew  quieter  and  fell  to 
pouring  forth  an  incoherent  recital  about  a 
candlestick.  From  the  meaningless  raving  of  the 


310        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

white,  drawn  lips  came  at  last  a  single  sentence 
of  lucid  revelation.  Philip  leaped  and  shook  him 
roughly  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Carl,  think!  think!  "  he  cried  fiercely.  "  For 
God's  sake,  think!  You — don't  know  what  you 
are  saying!" 

But  Carl  repeated  the  statement  again  and 
again,  and  Philip's  eyes  grew  sombre.  With 
quick,  keen  questions  he  reduced  the  chaotic  yarn 
to  order. 

The  wild  tale  at  an  end,  Carl  fell  back,  limp 
and  very  tired. 

"  In  God's  name,"  thundered  practical  Philip, 
"why  didn't  you  look  in  the  other  candlestick?" 

Carl  stared.  Then  suddenly  without  a  word  of 
warning,  he  pitched  forward  senseless  upon  the 
floor. 

Philip  loosened  his  clothing,  rubbed  his  icy 
hands  and  limbs  and  bathed  his  forehead,  but  the 
interval  was  long  and  trying  before  the  stark 
figure  on  the  floor  shuddered  slightly  and  strug 
gled  weakly  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"I'm  all  right  now,"  said  Carl  dully.  "And 
I've  got  to  go  on.  I  —  I  can't  meet  Diane."  He 
drew  something  from  his  pocket  and  jabbed  it  in 
his  arm. 

Philip  looked  on  with  disapproval. 

"  No,"  said  Carl,  meeting  his  glance.  "  No,  not 
so  very  often,  Philip.  Just  lately,  since  Sherrill 


In  Philip's  Wigwam  311 

and  I  camped  in  the  Glades.  There's  something 
—  something  very  tight  here  in  my  head  whenever 
I  grow  excited.  When  it  snaps  I'm  done  for  a 
while,  but  this  helps." 

Philip's  fine,  frank  mouth  was  very  grim. 

"  Carl,"  he  said  quietly,  "  off  there  to  the  south 
is  the  eccentric  swamp  home  of  a  singular  man, 
a  philosopher  and  a  doctor.  He's  Keela's  foster 
father.  I've  met  and  smoked  with  him.  I  want 
you  to  go  to  him  and  rest.  The  Indians  do  that. 
He's  what  you  need.  And  tell  him  you're  down 
and  out.  You'll  go  —  forme?" 

"Anywhere,"  said  Carl. 

"  Tell  him  about  the  dope  and  every  other  hell- 
conceived  abuse  with  which  you've  tormented 
your  body.  Tell  him  about  the  infernal  tightness 
in  your  head." 

"Yes,"  said  Carl. 

"But  this  thing  of  the  candlestick,"  added 
Philip  bitterly,  "tell  to  no  man.  You're  strong 
enough  to  start  now  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Philip  left  the  wigwam.  When  at  length  he 
returned,  there  was  a  dark,  slight  figure  at  his 
heels,  turbaned  and  tunicked,  a  guide  whom  he 
trusted  utterly. 

A  burning  wave  swept  suddenly  over  Carl's 
body  and  left  him  very  cold.  Philip  could  not 
know,  of  course. 


312        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  Keela  will  guide  you,"  said  Philip.  "  She 
could  follow  the  trail  with  her  eyes  closed.  The 
horses  are  saddled  at  the  edge  of  camp.  You'll 
be  there  by  daylight." 

He  smiled  and  held  out  his  hand  and  his  eyes 
were  encouraging.  The  hands  of  the  two  men 
tightened.  Carl  stumbled  blindly  away  at  the 
heels  of  the  Indian  girl.  Philip  watched  them  go 
— watched  Keela  lead  the  way  with  the  lithe,  soft 
tread  of  a  wild  animal,  and  mount  —  watched 
Carl  swing  heavily  into  the  saddle  and  follow. 
Silhouetted  darkly  against  the  watery  moon,  the 
silent  riders  filed  off  into  the  swamp-world  to  the 
south.  For  an  instant  Philip  experienced  a  sud 
den  flash  of  misgiving  but  Philip  was  just  and 
honorable  in  all  things  and  having  disciplined 
himself  to  faith  in  his  friend,  maintained  it. 

Then  his  eyes  wandered  slowly  to  the  wigwam 
of  Diane.  Thinking  of  the  story  of  the  candle 
stick,  with  his  mouth  twisted  into  a  queer,  wry 
smile,  Philip  fumbled  for  his  pipe. 

" Requiescat  in  pace"  said  Philip,  " the  hopes 
of  Philip  Poynter!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

UNDER  THE  WILD  MARCH  MOON 

QOUTHWARD  under  the  watery  moon  and 
1^  the  wild,  dark  clouds  rode  the  Indian  girl, 
following  a  trail  blazed  only  for  Indian  eyes. 
The  aquatic  world  about  them  had  grown  steadily 
wilder,  more  remote  from  the  haunts  of  men. 
Fording  miry  creeks,  silver-streaked  with  moon 
light,  trampling  through  dense,  dark,  tangled 
brakes  and  on,  under  the  wild  March  moon,  fol 
lowed  Carl,  a  prey  to  the  memory  of  the  Indian 
girl  as  he  had  seen  her  that  night  at  Sherrill's. 

Keela's  face,  vividly  dark  and  lovely,  had 
mocked  his  restless  slumbers  this  many  a  day. 
Keela's  eyes,  black  like  a  starless  night  or  the 
cloud-black  waters  of  Okeechobee  had  lured  and 
lured  to  sensual  conquest. 

But  a  great  shame  was  adding  its  torment  to 
the  terrible  pain  in  his  head  and  the  fevered  sing 
ing  of  his  pulses.  In  the  torture  of  his  self-abase 
ment,  the  over-strung  ligament  in  his  head  fell 
ominously  to  droning  again.  Everything  seemed 
remote  and  unreal.  He  hated  the  awful  silence 
about  him — the  crash  of  his  horse's  feet  through 
the  matted  brush  and  the  twist  of  palmetto,  re 
solved  itself  into  dancing  ciphers. 

sis 


314        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Ahead  Keela  stopped.  Motionless,  like  a 
beautiful  sculptured  thing,  she  sat  listening  as 
Carl  rode  up  beside  her. 

"What  is  it?  "he  asked. 

"I  fancied  some  one  followed,"  said  Keela 
soberly.  "It  may  not  be."  She  rode  forward, 
glancing  keenly  at  the  trail  behind  her. 

Thus  they  rode  onward  until  the  east  grew  pale 
and  gray.  A  bleak  dawn  was  breaking  in  melan 
choly  mists  over  the  Everglades.  The  lonely  ex 
panse  of  swamp  and  metallic  water,  of  grass- 
flats  and  tangled  wilds,  loomed  indistinctly  out 
of  the  half  light  in  sinister  skeleton. 

Keela  glanced  with  furtive  compassion  at  the 
haggard  face  of  the  rider  behind  her.  Since  mid 
night  he  had  ridden  in  utter  silence,  growing 
whiter  it  seemed  as  the  night  waned. 

"Another  hour!"  said  Keela  in  her  soft,  clear 
voice.  "  Be  of  courage.  When  the  sun  rises  there 
behind  the  cypress,  we  shall  be  at  our  journey's 
end." 

"I  —  I  am  all  right,"  stammered  Carl  coura 
geously,  but  he  bit  his  lips  until  they  bled,  and 
swayed  so  violently  in  the  saddle  that  Keela  slid 
to  the  ground  in  alarm. 

"Put  your  arms  about  my  shoulders  —  so!" 
she  commanded  imperiously.  'You  will  fall! 
Philip  surely  could  not  know  how  ill  you  are. 
Can  you  get  down  ? " 


Under  the  Wild  March  Moon  315 

With  an  effort  Carl  dismounted  and  fell  for 
ward  on  his  knees. 

'*  You  must  sleep  for  a  while,"  said  Keela.  "  I 
will  build  a  fire.  We  can  breakfast  here  and  rest 
as  long  as  you  like."  She  took  a  blanket  from  his 
saddle  and  spread  it  on  the  ground. 

Carl  crept  on  hands  and  knees  to  the  Indian 
blanket  and  lay  very  still.  A  drowsiness  numbed 
his  senses.  When  he  awoke  after  a  brief  interval 
of  restless  slumber,  it  was  not  yet  daylight, 
though  the  sky  in  the  east  was  softly  streaked  with 
color.  The  moon  hung  low. 

A  fire  crackled  in  the  center  of  a  clearing.  The 
horses  were  tethered  to  a  tree.  Keela  was  off 
somewhere  with  bow  and  arrow  to  hunt  their 
breakfast. 

Now  suddenly  as  he  lay  there,  tired  and 
apathetic,  Carl  was  conscious  of  a  face  leering 
from  among  the  trees  close  at  hand,  a  dark,  thin- 
lipped  foreign  face  with  eyes  black  with  hate 
and  malicious  triumph.  There  was  a  horse 
hitched  to  a  tree  in  the  thicket  beyond.  In  that 
instant  Carl  knew  that  the  Houdanian  had  fur 
tively  followed  the  camp  of  the  traders  into  the 
wilds  of  the  Everglades,  spurred  on  by  the  fierce 
command  of  Ronador.  But  he  did  not  move.  A 
terrible  apathy  made  him  indifferent  to  the  knife 
of  the  assassin.  He  had  had  his  day  of  masterful 
torment  back  there  in  the  attic  of  the  farm,  he 


316        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

told  himself.  Now  he  must  pay.  The  knife 
would  quiet  this  unbearable  agony  in  his  head. 

Themar  met  his  eyes,  smiled  evilly  and  raised 
his  knife.  But  the  weapon  fell  suddenly  from  his 
hand.  With  an  ominous  hum  an  arrow  whizzed 
fiercely  through  the  trees  and  anchored  in  the 
flesh  above  his  heart. 

Themar  stumbled  and  fell  forward  on  his  face. 
Like  the  stricken  moose  who  seeks  to  press  his 
wound  against  the  earth,  he  drove  the  arrow  home 
to  his  heart.  He  sobbed,  and  choked  and  lay  very 
still,  a  scarlet  wound  dying  his  flannel  shirt. 

Carl's  horrified  eyes  turned  slowly  to  the  west. 

Keela  was  coming  through  the  trees,  proud 
eyes  fierce  with  terrible  anger;  halting  beside  the 
dead  man,  she  spurned  him  with  moccasined  foot. 

The  tense,  droning  string  in  Carl's  head 
whirred  again  —  and  snapped.  He  lay  in  a  heavy 
stupor,  dozing  fitfully  until  the  moon  climbed 
high  again  above  the  Glades. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  VICTORY 

WHEN  consciousness  and  a  restful  sense 
of  returning  strength  came  at  last  Keela 
was  bending  anxiously  over  him. 

"You  have  been  quiet  so  long,"  she  said 
gravely,  "  that  I  grew  afraid.  Drink."  She  held 
forth  a  cup  of  woven  leaves,  and  the  glance  of 
her  great  black  eyes  was  very  soft  and  gentle. 

Carl  flushed  and  taking  the  cup  with  shaking 
hand,  drank.  There  was  a  flash  of  gratitude  in 
his  eyes. 

"Themar?"  he  whispered.  "Where  is  he?" 
He  looked  toward  the  trees  beyond. 

"In  the  swamp!"  said  Keela,  her  face  stern 
and  beautiful.    "  It  is  better  so." 
'You  —  you  dragged  him  there?" 

"  I  am  very  strong,"  said  Keela  simply.  "  The 
vultures  will  get  him.  It  is  the  Indian  way  with 
one  who  murders." 

Their  eyes  met,  a  great  wave  of  crimson  sud 
denly  dyed  Keela's  throat  and  face  and  swept 
in  lovely  tide  to  the  brilliant  turban.  A  con 
strained  silence  fell  between  them,  broken  only 
by  the  whir  of  a  great  heron  flapping  by  on  snowy 
wings.  And  there  was  something  in  Keela's  eyes 

317 


318        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

that  sent  the  blood  coursing  furiously  through 
Carl's  fevered  veins. 

The  Indian  girl  busied  herself  with  the  wild 
duck  roasting  in  the  hub  of  coals.  Carl  ate  a 
little  and  lay  down  again.  He  saw  now  that  The- 
mar's  horse  was  tethered  beside  Keela's — that 
the  dead  man's  saddlebags  lay  by  the  fire.  Fur 
tive  recourse  to  the  drug  in  his  pocket  presently 
flushed  his  veins  with  artificial  calm.  He  fell 
asleep  to  find  his  dreams  haunted  again  by  the 
lovely  face  of  Keela,  kinder  and  gentler  now  than 
that  proud,  imperious  face  above  the  line  of  flash 
ing  topaz. 

He  awoke  with  a  start. 

The  Indian  girl  lay  asleep  on  a  blanket  by  the 
fire.  The  world  of  moon-haunted  jungle  and 
water  was  very  quiet.  Firelight  faintly  haloed 
Keela's  face  and  brought  mad  memories  of  the 
soft  light  of  the  Venetian  lamp  at  the  S hern  11 
fete.  He  noted  the  pure,  delicate  regularity  of 
feature,  the  delicate,  vivid  skin  —  it  was  paler 
than  Diane's  —  and  flaming  through  his  brain 
went  the  dangerous  reflection  that  conquest  lay 
now  perhaps  in  the  very  hollow  of  his  hand. 

Desire  had  driven  him  on  to  things  unspeak 
able.  It  had  clouded  his  brain,  fired  his  blood  to 
ugly  resolve,  blinded  every  finer  instinct  with  its 
turbulent  call,  until  the  siren  who  beckons  men 


The  Victory  319 

onward  through  the  marshland  of  passion  had 
flung  the  gift  at  his  feet  in  the  haunted  wilds. 

Staring  at  the  tranquil,  delicate  face  of  the 
sleeper  by  the  camp  fire,  a  great  horror  of  the 
scarlet  hours  behind  him  awoke  suddenly  in  Carl's 
heart.  There  had  been  a  girl  who  cried.  And 
he  had  laughed  and  shrugged  and  voiced  an  ironi 
cal  philosophy  of  sex  for  her  consolation.  There 
was  no  philosophy  of  sex,  only  a  hideous  injustice 
which  Man,  the  Hunter,  willfully  ignored.  There 
were  faces  in  the  fire  —  faces  like  that  of  Keela, 
that  had  lured  to  sensual  conquest  and  faded. 

Trembling  violently,  Carl  stared  long  and 
steadily  at  the  Indian  girl.  There  had  been  a 
time,  before  he  sank  to  the  bottom  of  the  pit, 
when  her  face  had  awakened  in  him  an  eager  def 
erence.  The  moon  darkened.  A  white  wall  of 
mist  settled  thickly  over  the  Glades.  Then  came 
other  thoughts.  Philip  trusted  him.  He  must 
not  forget.  And  the  immortal  spark  of  control 
lay  somewhere  within  him.  Unbridled  passion 
of  mind  and  body  had  made  him  very  ill.  Very 
well,  then,  it  behooved  him  to  exorcise  the  demon 
while  this  tormenting  clarity  of  vision  whirled 
the  dread  kaleidoscope  of  his  careless  life  before 
him  in  honest  colors. 

Unleashed  by  drug  and  drink  and  ceaseless 
brooding,  nerve  centers  had  rebelled,  an  infernal 
blood  pressure  born  of  mental  agony  had  inspired 


320        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

the  droning,  his  will  had  slipped  its  moorings. 
That  his  body  was  not  ill,  he  now  knew  for  the 
first  time.  Fever,  nausea,  pain  and  droning,  they 
had  all  leaped  at  the  infernal  manipulation  of  his 
disordered  mind  with  sickening  intensity.  Now 
with  a  terrible  effort  he  summoned  each  tattered 
remnant  of  the  splendid  mental  strength  he  had 
indifferently  abused,  disciplined  his  fleeing 
faculty  of  concentration  and  sat  very  quiet. 

Philip  trusted  him.  He  must  not  forget! 
Keela's  face  had  made  its  delicate  appeal  to  his 
finer  side  until  that  appeal  had  been  hushed  by 
the  call  of  his  blood.  And  there  were  times  when 
Diane  had  been  kind.  He  must  not  forget.  Like 
the  stirring  of  a  faint  shadow,  he  felt  the  first 
dawning  sense  of  self-mastery  he  had  known  for 
days. 

The  horrible  Circe  with  infamous  eyes  and 
scarlet  robes  no  longer  lured  .  .  .  the  ter 
rible  sirocco  of  unbridled  passion  which  had  domi 
nated  his  body  almost  to  destruction  was  burning 
itself  out  .  .  .  the  droning  in  his  head  was 
very  faint.  He  must  not  forget  Philip,  truest 
and  best  of  friends. 

Carl  lay  down  again  beside  the  fire  with  a  great 
sigh.  He  was  very  tired — very  sleepy. 

He  slept  soundly  until  morning. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  broad  daylight.  There 
was  a  curious  sense  of  utter  rest  in  his  veins  and 


"  No,  I  may  not  take  your  hand." 


The  Victory  321 

meeting  Keela's  solicitous  glance,  he  said,  a  little 
diffidently,  that  he  was  better  and  that  he  thought 
they  might  go  on.  After  a  breakfast  of  quail 
and  wild  cassava  they  rode  on,  Keela  on  Themar's 
horse.  Her  own  obediently  followed. 

An  hour  later  they  came  to  an  aquatic  jungle 
haunted  by  noisome  reptiles.  Here  fallen  trees 
and  a  matted  underbrush  of  poisonous  vines  lay 
submerged  in  dank  black  water.  Cypress 
gloomed  in  forbidding  shadow  above  the  stag 
nant  water;  the  swamp  itself  was  rife  with  hor 
rible  quacks  and  croaks  and  off  somewhere  the 
distant  bellow  of  an  alligator. 

So  dense  and  dark  this  terrible  haunt  of  snake 
and  bird  and  brilliant  lizard  that  Carl  shuddered, 
but  Keela,  dismounting,  tethered  her  horses  to 
the  nearest  tree  and  struck  off  boldly  across  a 
narrow  trail  of  dry  land  above  the  level  of  the 
water.  Carl  followed.  Presently  the  matted 
jungle  thinned  and  they  came  to  a  rude  foot 
bridge  made  of  twisted  roots.  It  led  to  the  first 
of  a  series  of  fertile  islands  which  threaded  the 
terrible  swamp  with  a  riot  of  color.  Here  royal 
poinciana  flared  gorgeously  beside  the  orange- 
colored  blossoms  of  wild  cassava,  and  hordes  of 
birds  flamed  by  on  brilliant  wings. 

Through  rude  avenues  of  palm  and  pine  and 
cypress,  through  groves  of  wild  orange  and 
banana  fringed  with  mulberry  and  persimmon 


822        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

trees,  over  rustic  bridges  which  led  from  island  to 
island,  they  came  at  last  to  a  larger  hummock  and 
the  wild,  vine-covered  log  lodge  of  Mic-co,  the 
Indians'  white  friend. 

It  was  thatched  like  the  Seminole  wigwams  in 
palmetto  and  set  in  a  cluster  of  giant  trees.  Trail 
ing  moss  and  ferns  and  vines  hung  from  the 
boughs,  weaving  a  dense,  cool  shade  about  the 
dwelling.  The  exuberant  air  plants  brought 
memories  of  Lanier's  immortal  poem: 

"  Glooms  of  the  live  oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven 
With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that  myriad-cloven 
Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs,  —  " 

There  were  brilliant  vistas  of  bloom  beyond 
the  shadow.  The  odor  of  orange  hung  heavily  in 
the  still,  warm  air.  A  pair  of  snowy  herons 
flapped  tamely  about  among  the  pines. 

Utter  peace  and  quiet,  alive  with  the  chirp  of 
many  birds,  brilliant  sunshine  and  deep,  dark 
shadow!  But  Carl  stared  most  at  the  figure  that 
came  to  greet  them,  a  tall,  broad  man  of  dark 
complexion  and  wonderful,  kindly  eyes  of  pierc 
ing  darkness.  His  hair  and  beard  were  snow- 
white  and  reached  nearly  to  his  waist,  his  attire 
buckskin,  laced  at  the  seams.  But  his  slender, 
sensitive  hands  caught  and  held  attention. 


The  Victory  323 

"  Mic-co,"  said  Keela  gravely,  "  he  is  very  tired 
in  his  head.  Philip  would  have  him  rest." 

Mic-co  held  out  his  hand  with  a  quiet  smile. 
Whatever  his  searching  eyes  had  found  in  the 
haggard  face  of  his  young  guest  was  reflected  in 
his  greeting. 

'  You  are  very  welcome,"  he  said  simply. 

"No,"  said  Carl  steadily,  "I  may  not  take 
your  hand,  sir,  until  you  know  me  for  what  I  am. 
There  are  none  worse.  I  have  been  through  the 
mire  of  hell  itself.  I  have  dishonorably  betrayed 
a  kinsman  in  the  hope  of  gold.  I  had  thought  to 
kill.  Only  a  freak  of  fate  has  stayed  my  hand. 
And  there  is  more  that  I  may  not  tell  —  " 

"  So?"  said  Mic-co  quietly. 

Flushing,  Carl  took  the  outstretched  hand. 

"I  —  I  thank  you,"  he  said,  and  looked  away. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

IN  MIC-CO'S  LODGE 

r  I  iHE  rooms  of  Mic-co's  lodge  opened,  in  the 
X  fashion  of  the  old  Pompeian  villas,  upon  a 
central  court  roofed  only  by  the  Southern  sky. 
This  court,  floored  with  split  logs,  covered  with 
bearskin  rugs  and  furnished  in  handmade  chairs 
of  twisted  palmetto  and  a  rude  table,  years  back 
Mic-co  and  his  Indian  aides  had  built  above  a 
clear,  lazy  stream.  Now  the  stream  crept  be 
neath  the  logs  to  a  quiet  open  pool  in  the  center 
where  lilies  and  grasses  grew,  and  thence  by  its 
own  channel  under  the  logs  again  and  out.  Storm 
coverings  of  buckskin  were  rolled  above  the  outer 
windows  and  above  the  doorways  which  opened 
into  the  court. 

Here,  when  the  moon  rose  over  the  lonely  lodge 
and  glinted  peacefully  in  the  lilied  pool,  Mic-co 
listened  to  the  tale  of  his  young  guest.  It  was 
a  record  of  bodily  abuse,  of  passion  and  tempta 
tion,  which  few  men  may  live  to  tell,  but  Mic-co 
neither  condoned  nor  condemned.  He  smoked 
and  listened. 

"Let  us  make  a  compact,"  he  said  with  his 
quiet  smile.  "  I  may  question  without  reserve. 
You  may  withhold  what  you  will.  That  is  fair? " 

324 


In  Mic-co's  Lodge  325 

"Yes." 

"  Have  you  ever  endured  hardship  of  any 
kind?" 

"I  have  hunted  in  the  Arctics,"  said  Carl. 
"  There  was  a  time  when  food  failed.  We  lived 
for  weeks  on  reindeer  moss  and  rock  tripe.  I 
have  been  in  wild  territory  with  naturalists  and 
hunters.  Probably  I  have  known  more  adven 
turous  hardship  than  most  men." 

Mic-co  nodded. 

"I  fancied  so,"  he  said.  "What  is  your 
favorite  painting?"  he  asked  unexpectedly. 

The  answer  came  without  an  instant's  hesita 
tion. 

"Paul  Potter's  'Bull.'" 

"A  thing  of  inherent  virility  and  vigor,  in 
tensely  masculine!"  said  Mic-co  with  a  smile, 
adding  after  an  interval  of  thought,  "but  there 
is  a  danger  in  over-sexing — " 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought  so.  The  over-mas 
culine  man  is  too  brutal." 

"And  the  over- feminine  woman?" 

"  Kindly,  sentimental,  helpless  and  weak.  I 
have  lived  with  such  an  aunt  since  I  was  fifteen. 
No,  I  beg  of  you,  do  not  misunderstand  me!  I 
blame  nothing  upon  her.  Like  many  good  women 
whose  minds  are  blocked  off  in  conventional 
squares,  she  is  very  loyal  and  sympathetic  —  and 
very  trying.  The  essence  of  her  temperament  is 


326        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

ineffectuality.  My  cousin  and  I  were  a  wild,  un 
manageable  pair  who  rode  roughshod  over  pro 
test.  That  Aunt  Agatha  was  not  in  fault  may 
be  proved  by  my  cousin.  She  is  a  fine,  true, 
splendid  woman." 

An  ineffectual  aunt  in  the  critical  years  of 
adolescence!  Mic-co  did  not  suggest  that  his 
cousin's  sex  had  been  her  salvation. 

So  nights  by  the  pool  Mic-co  plumbed  the 
depths  of  his  young  guest  with  the  fine,  tired 
eyes. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said  gently  another  night;  "  this 
inordinate  sensitiveness  of  which  you  speak.  To 
what  do  you  attribute  it  ? " 

Carl  colored. 

"My  mother,"  he  said,  "was  courageous  and 
unconventional.  She  recognized  the  fact  that 
marriage  and  monogamy  are  not  the  ethical 
answers  of  the  future  —  that  though  ideal  unions 
sometimes  result,  it  is  not  because  of  marriage, 
but  in  spite  of  it — that  motherhood  is  the  inalien 
able  right  of  every  woman  with  the  divine  spark 
in  her  heart,  no  matter  what  the  disappointing 
lack  of  desirable  marriage  chances  in  her  life  may 
be.  Therefore,  when  the  years  failed  to  produce 
her  perfect  and  desirable  human  complement,  she 
sought  a  eugenic  mate  and  bore  me,  refusing  to 
saddle  herself  to  a  meaningless,  man-made  part 
nership  with  infinite  possibilities  of  domestic  hell 


In  Mic-co's  Lodge  327 

in  it,  merely  as  a  sop  to  the  world-Cerberus  of 
convention.  Marriage  could  have  added  nothing 
to  her  lofty  conceptions  of  motherhood  —  but  I 

—  I  have  been  keenly  resentful  and  sensitive — 
for  her.    I  think  it  has  been  the  feeling  that  no 
one  understood.    Then,  after  she  died,  there  was 
no  one  —  only  Philip.    I  saw  him  rarely.'* 

"  And  your  cousin?  " 

"  She  had  been  taught — -to  misunderstand. 
There  was  always  that  barrier.  And  she  is  very 
high  spirited.  Though  we  were  much  together  as' 
youngsters  she  could  not  forget." 

A  singular  maternal  history,  a  beautiful,  high- 
spirited,  intolerant  cousin  who  had  been  taught  to 
despise  his  mother's  morality!  What  warring 
forces  indeed  had  gone  to  the  making  of  this  man 
before  him. 

'You  have  been  lonely?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Carl.  "  My  mother  died  when  I 
needed  her  most.  Later  when  I  was  very  lonely 

—  or  hurt  —  I  drank." 

"  And  brooded ! "  finished  Mic-co  quietly. 

"Yes,"  said  Carl.  "Always."  He  spoke  a, 
little  bitterly  of  the  wild  inheritance  of  passions 
and  arrogant  intolerance  with  which  Nature  had 
saddled  him. 

"All  of  which,"  reminded  Mic-co  soberly, 
"you  inflamed  by  intemperate  drinking.  Is  it 
an  inherited  appetite?" 


828        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  It  is  not  an  appetite  at  all,"  said  Carl. 

"You  like  it?" 

"  If  you  mean  that  to  abandon  it  is  to  suffer 
— no.  I  enjoyed  it  —  yes." 

The  wind  that  blew  through  the  open  windows 
and  doors  of  the  lodge  stirred  the  moonlit  water 
lilies  in  the  pool.  To  Carl  they  were  pale  and 
unreal  like  the  wraith  of  the  days  behind  him. 
Like  a  reflected  censer  in  the  heart  of  the  bloom 
shone  the  evening  star.  The  peace  of  it  all  lay 
in  Mic-co's  fine,  dark,  tranquil  face  as  he  talked, 
subtly  moulding  another's  mind  in  the  pattern  of 
his  own.  He  did  not  preach.  Mic-co  smoked  and 
talked  philosophy. 

Carl  had  known  but  little  respect  for  the 
opinions  of  others.  He  was  to  learn  it  now.  He 
was  to  find  his  headstrong  will  matched  by  one 
stronger  for  all  it  was  gentler;  his  impudent 
philosophy  punctured  by  a  wisdom  as  great  as  it 
was  compassionate;  his  own  magnetic  power  to 
influence  as  he  willed,  a  negligible  factor  in  the 
presence  of  a  man  whose  magnetism  was  greater. 

Mic-co  had  said  quietly  by  the  pool  one  night 
that  he  had  been  a  doctor  —  that  he  loved  the 
peace  and  quiet  of  his  island  home  —  that  years 
back  the  Seminoles  had  saved  his  life.  He  had 
since  devoted  his  own  life  to  their  service.  They 
were  a  pitiful,  hunted  remnant  of  a  great  race 
who  were  kindred  to  the  Aztec. 


In  Mic-co's  Lodge  329 

He  seemed  to  think  his  explanation  quite 
enough.  Wherefore  Carl  as  quietly  accepted 
what  he  offered.  There  was  much  that  he  him 
self  was  pledged  to  withhold.  Thus  their  friend 
ship  grew  into  something  fine  and  deep  that  was 
stronger  medicine  for  Carl  than  any  preaching. 

"My  mother  and  I  were  friends!"  said  Carl 
one  night.  *  When  I  was  a  lad  of  ten  or  so,  as 
a  concession  to  convention  she  married  the  man 
whose  name  I  bear,  a  kindly  chap  who  under 
stood.  He  died.  After  that  we  were  very  close, 
my  mother  and  I.  We  rode  much  together  and 
talked.  I  think  she  feared  for  me.  There  was 
peace  in  my  life  then — like  this.  That  is  why  I 
speak  of  it.  I  needed  a  friend,  some  one  like  her 
with  brains  and  grit  and  balance  that  I  could  re 
spect  —  some  one  who  would  understand.  There 
are  but  few —  " 

"  She  spoke  of  your  own  father?" 

"  No.  I  do  not  even  know  his  name.  We  were 
pledged  not  to  speak  of  it.  I  fancied  as  I  grew 
older  that  she  was  sorry — " 

The  subject  was  obviously  painful. 

"And  you've  never  been  honestly  contented 
since?"  put  in  Mic-co  quickly. 

"  Once."  Carl  spoke  of  Wherry.  '  They  were 
weeks  of  genuine  hardship,  those  weeks  at  the 
farm,  but  it's  singular  how  frequently  my  mind 
goes  back  to  them." 


830        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"Ah!"  said  Mic-co  with  glowing  eyes,  "there 
is  no  salvation  like  work  for  the  happiness  of 
another.  That  I  know." 

So  the  quiet  days  filed  by  until  Mic-co  turned 
at  last  from  the  healing  of  the  mind  to  the  healing 
of  the  body. 

"Let  us  test  your  endurance  in  the  Seminole 
way,"  he  said  one  morning  by  the  island  camp 
fire  where  his  Indian  servants  cooked  the  food  for 
the  lodge.  Beyond  lay  the  palmetto  wigwams  of 
the  Indian  servants  who  worked  in  the  island 
fields  of  corn  and  rice  and  sugar  cane,  made  wild 
cassava  into  flour,  hunted  with  Mic-co  and  rode 
betimes  with  the  island  exports  into  civilization  by 
the  roundabout  road  to  the  south  which  skirted 
the  swamp.  Off  to  the  west,  in  the  curious  chain 
of  islands,  lay  the  palmetto  shelter  of  the  horses. 

Mic-co  placed  a  live  coal  upon  the  wrist  of  his 
young  guest  and  quietly  watched.  There  was  no 
flinching.  The  coal  burned  itself  out  upon  the 
motionless  wrist  of  a  Spartan. 

Thereafter  they  rode  hard  and  hunted,  day  by 
day.  Carl  worked  in  the  fields  with  Mic-co  and 
the  Indians,  tramped  at  sunset  over  miles  of 
island  path  fringed  with  groves  of  bitter  orange, 
disciplining  his  body  to  a  new  endurance.  A 
heavy  sweat  at  the  end  in  a  closed  tent  of  buck 
skin  which  opened  upon  the  shore  of  a  sheltered 
inland  lake,  hardened  his  aching  muscles  to  iron. 


In  Mic-co's  Lodge  331 

Upon  the  great  stone  heating  in  the  fire  within 
the  sweat-lodge  an  Indian  lad  poured  water.  It 
rose  in  sweltering  clouds  of  steam  about  the  naked 
body  of  Mic-co's  guest,  who  at  length  plunged 
from  the  tent  into  the  chill  waters  of  the  lake  and 
swam  vigorously  across  to  towels  and  shelter. 

Carl  learned  to  pole  a  cypress  canoe  dexter 
ously  through  miles  of  swamp  tangled  with  grass 
and  lilies,  through  shallows  and  deep  pools  dark 
ened  by  hanging  branches.  He  learned  to  tan 
hides  and  to  carry  a  deer  upon  his  shoulders. 
Nightly  he  plunged  from  the  sweat-lodge  into 
the  lake  and  later  slept  the  sleep  of  utter  weari 
ness  under  a  deerskin  cover. 

So  Mic-co  disciplined  the  splendid  body  and 
brain  of  his  guest  to  the  strength  and  endurance 
of  an  Indian;  but  the  quiet  hours  by  the  pool 
brought  with  them  the  subtler  healing. 

Carl  grew  browner  and  sturdier  day  by  day. 
His  eyes  were  quieter.  There  was  less  of  arro 
gance  too  in  the  sensitive  mouth  and  less  of  care 
less  assertiveness  in  his  manner. 

So  matters  stood  wrhen  Philip  rode  in  by  the 
southern  trail  with  Sho-caw. 

Now  Philip  had  wisely  waited  for  the  inevitable 
readjustment,  trusting  entirely  to  Mic-co,  but 
with  the  memory  of  Carl's  haggard  face  and 
haunted  eyes,  he  was  unprepared  for  the  lean, 


882        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

tanned,  wholly  vigorous  young  man  who  sprang 
to  meet  him. 

"Well  I  "said  Philip.    "Well!" 

He  was  shaken  a  little  and  cleared  his  throat, 
at  a  loss  for  words. 

"  You  —  you  infernal  dub ! "  said  Carl.  It  was 
all  he  could  trust  himself  to  say. 

It  was  a  singular  greeting,  Mic-co  thought, 
and  very  eloquent. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

THE  BAIN  UPON  THE  WIGWAM 

TO  THE  heart  of  the  gypsy  there  is  a  kindred 
voice  in  the  cheerful  crackle  of  a  camp  fire 
— in  the  wind  that  rustles  tree  and  grass  —  in 
the  song  of  a  bird  or  the  hum  of  bees  —  in  the 
lap  of  a  lake  or  the  brilliant  trail  of  a  shooting 
star. 

A  winter  forest  of  tracking  snow  is  rife  with 
messages  of  furry  folk  who  prowl  by  night. 
Moon-checkered  trees  fling  wavering  banners  of 
gypsy  hieroglyphics  upon  the  ground.  Sun  and 
moon  and  cloud  and  the  fiery  color-pot  of  the 
firmament  write  their  symbols  upon  the  horizon 
for  gypsy  eyes  to  read. 

What  wonder  then  that  the  milky  clouds  which 
piled  fantastically  above  the  Indian  camp  fash 
ioned  hazily  at  times  into  curious  boats  sailing 
away  to  another  land  ?  What  wonder  if  the  dawn 
was  streaked  with  imperial  purple?  What 
wonder  if  Diane  built  faces  and  fancies  in  the 
ember-glow  of  the  Seminole  fire- wheel?  What 
wonder  if  like  the  pine-wood  sparrow  and  the  wind 
of  Okeechobee  the  voice  of  the  woodland  always 
questioned?  Conscience,  soul-argument — what 

333 


884        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

you  will  —  there  were  voices  in  the  wild  which 
stirred  the  girl's  heart  to  introspection. 

So  it  was  with  the  rain  which,  at  the  dark  of 
the  moon,  pattered  gently  on  the  palmetto  roof 
of  her  wigwam. 

"And  now,"  said  the  rain  with  a  soft  gust  of 
flying  drops,  "now  there  is  Sho-caw!" 

"  Yes,"  said  Diane  with  a  sigh,  "  there  is  Sho- 
caw.  I  am  very  sorry." 

"But,"  warned  the  rain,  "one  must  not  for 
get.  At  Keela's  teaching  you  have  fallen  into  the 
soft,  musical  tongue  of  these  Indian  folk  with 
marvelous  ease.  And  you  wear  the  Seminole 
dress  of  a  chief — " 

'Yes.    After  all,  that  was  imprudent  — ' 

'You  can  ride  and  shoot  an  arrow  swift  and 
far.  Your  eyes  are  keen  and  your  tread  lithe  and 
soft  like  a  fawn— 

"  It  is  all  the  wild  lore  of  the  woodland  I 
learned  as  a  child." 

"But  Sho-caw  does  not  know!  To  him  the 
gypsy  heart  of  you,  the  sun-brown  skin  and 
scarlet  cheeks,  the  night-black  hair  beneath  the 
turban,  are  but  the  lure  and  charm  of  an  errant 
(laughter  of  the  O-kee-fee-ne-kee  wilderness. 
What  wonder  that  he  can  not  see  you  as  you  are, 
a  dark-eyed  child  of  the  race  of  white  men!" 

"  I  do  not  wonder." 

"He  has  been  grave  and  very  deferential, 


The  Rain  Upon  the  Wigwam  335 

gathered  wood  for  you  and  carried  water.  Yes 
terday  there  was  a  freshly  killed  deer  at  the  door 
of  the  wigwam.  It  is  the  first  shy  overture  of  the 
wooing  Seminole." 

"  I  know.  Keela  has  told  me.  It  has  all 
frightened  me  a  little.  I  —  I  think  I  had  better 
go  away  again." 

"There  was  a  time,  in  the  days  of  Arcadia, 
when  Philip  would  have  laughed,  and  a  second 
deer  would  have  lain  at  the  door  of  your  wig 
wam— 

"  Philip  is  changed." 

"He  is  quieter— 

"Yes." 

"  A  little  sterner— " 

"Yes." 

"Like  one  perhaps  who  has  abandoned  a 
dream!" 

"  I  —  do — not — know." 

"Why  does  he  ride  away  for  days  with  Sho- 
caw?" 

"  I  have  wondered." 

The  wind,  wafting  from  the  rain  which 
splashed  in  the  pool  of  Mic-co's  court,  might  have 
told,  but  the  wind,  with  the  business  of  rain  upon 
its  mind,  was  reticent. 

"AndRonador?" 

"  I  have  not  forgotten." 

"  He  is  waiting." 


886        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  Yes.  Day  by  day  I  have  put  off  the  thought 
of  the  inevitable  reckoning.  It  is  another  rea 
son  why  presently  I  must  hurry  away." 

"A  singular  trio  of  suitors!"  sighed  the  rain. 
"A  prince — an  Indian  warrior — and  a  spy!" 

"  Not  that ! "  cried  the  girl's  heart.  "  No,  no  — 
not  that!" 

"  You  breathed  it  but  a  minute  ago! " 

"Iknow- 

"And  of  the  three,  Sho-caw,  bright  copper 
though  he  is,  is  perhaps  braver  - 

"No!" 

"Taller—" 

"  He  is  not  so  tall  as  Philip." 

"  To  be  sure  Philip  is  brown  and  handsome  and 
sturdy  and  very  strong,  but  Ronador — ah!- 
there  imperial  distinction  and  poise  are  blended 
with  as  true  a  native  grace  as  Sho-caw's— 

"  Humor  and  resource  are  better  things." 

"  Sho-caw's  grace  is  not  so  heavy  as  Ronador's 
—  and  not  so  sprightly  as  Philip's — " 

"It  may  be." 

"  One  may  tell  much  by  the  color  and  expres 
sion  of  a  man's  eye.  Sho-caw's  eyes  are  keen, 
alert  and  grave;  Ronador's  dark,  compelling  and 
very  eloquent.  What  though  there  is  a  constant 
sense  of  suppression  and  smouldering  fire  and 
not  quite  so  much  directness  as  one  might 
wish  —  " 


The  Rain  Upon  the  Wigwam  337 

"Philip's  eyes  are  calm  and  steady  and  very 
frank,"  said  the  girl,  "  and  he  is  false." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  rain  with  a  noise  like  a  shower 
of  tears,  "yes,  he  is  very  false." 

The  wind  sighed.  The  steady  drip  of  the  rain, 
filtering  through  the  vines  twisted  heavily  about 
the  oak  trunks,  was  indescribably  mournful. 
Suddenly  the  nameless  terror  that  had  crept  into 
the  girl's  veins  that  first  night  in  the  Seminole 
camp  came  again. 

"  When  the  Mulberry  Moon  is  at  its  full,"  she 
said  shuddering,  "  I  will  go  back  to  the  van  with 
Keela.  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  here  that  fright 
ens  me  so.  And  I  will  marry  Ronador.  Every 
wild  thing  in  the  forest  loves  and  mates.  And  I 
—  I  am  very  lonely." 

But  by  the  time  the  Mulberry  Moon  of  the 
Seminoles  blanketed  the  great  marsh  in  misty 
silver  Diane  was  restlessly  on  her  way  back  to  the 
world  of  white  men. 

Philip  followed.  Leaner,  browner,  a  little  too 
stern,  perhaps,  about  the  mouth  and  eyes,  a  gypsy 
of  greater  energy  and  resource  than  when  he  had 
struck  recklessly  into  the  Glades  with  the  music- 
machine  he  had  since  exchanged  for  an  Indian 
wagon,  Philip  camped  and  smoked  and  hunted 
with  the  skill  and  gravity  of  an  Indian. 

So  the  wagons  filed  back  again  into  the  little 
hamlet  where  Johnny  waited,  daily  astonishing 


888        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

the  natives  by  a  series  of  lies  profoundly  adventur 
ous  and  thrilling.  Rex's  furious  bark  of  welcome 
at  the  sight  of  his  young  mistress  was  no  whit  less 
hysterical  than  Johnny's  instant  groan  of  relief, 
or  the  incoherent  manner  in  which  he  detailed  an 
unforgettable  interview  with  Aunt  Agatha,  who 
had  appeared  one  night  from  heaven  knows 
where  and  pledged  him  with  tears  and  sniffs  in 
numerable  to  telegraph  her  when  from  the 
melancholy  fastnesses  of  the  Everglades,  Diane 
or  her  scalp  emerged. 

"She  wouldn't  go  North,"  finished  Johnny 
graphically,  his  apple  cheeks  very  red  and  his  eyes 
very  bright, "  she  certainly  would  not — she'd  like 
to  see  herself — she  would  indeed! — and  this  no 
place  for  me  to  wait.  Them  very  words,  Miss 
Diane.  And  she  went  and  opened  your  grand 
father's  old  house  in  St.  Augustine  —  the  old 
Westfall  homestead  —  and  she's  there  now 
waitin*.  Likely,  Miss  Diane,  I'd  better  telegraph 
now — this  very  minute — afore  she  takes  it  in 
her  head  to  come  again  1 " 

Johnny's  dread  of  another  Aunt  Agathean 
visitation  was  wholly  candid  and  sincere.  He  de 
parted  on  a  trot  to  telegraph,  hailing  Philip 
warmly  by  the  way. 

Here  upon  the  following  morning  Diane  and 
Keela  parted  —  for  the  Indian  girl  was  pledged 
to  return  to  the  lodge  of  Mic-co. 


The  Rain  Upon  the  Wigwam  339 

"  Six  moons,  now,"  she  explained  with  shining 
eyes,  "  I  stay  at  the  lodge  of  Mic-co,  my  foster 
father.  When  the  Falling  Leaf  Moon  of  No 
vember  comes,  I  shall  still  be  there,  living  the 
ways  of  white  men."  She  held  out  her  hand. 
"  Aw-lip-ka-shaw ! "  she  said  shyly,  her  black  eyes 
very  soft  and  sorrowful.  "  It  is  a  prettier  parting 
than  the  white  man's.  By  and  by,  Diane,  you 
will  write  to  the  lodge  of  Mic-co?  The  Indian 
lads  ride  in  each  moon  to  the  village  for  Mic-co's 
books  and  papers."  Her  great  eyes  searched 
Diane's  face  a  little  wistfully.  "  Sometime,"  she 
added  shyly,  "  when  you  wish,  I  will  come  again. 
You  will  not  ride  away  soon  to  the  far  cities  of 
the  North?" 

"No!"  said  Diane.  "No  indeed!  Not  for 
ever  so  long.  I'm  tired.  Likely  I'll  hunt  a  quiet 
spot  where  there's  a  lake  and  trees  and  lilies,  and 
camp  and  rest.  You  won't  forget  me,  Keela?  " 

Keela  had  a  wordless  gift  of  eloquence.  Her 
eyes  promised. 

Diane  smiled  and  tightened  her  hold  of  the 
slim,  brown  Indian  hand. 

"Aw-lip-ka-shaw,  Keela!"  she  said.  "Some 
day  I'm  coming  back  and  take  you  home  with 


me." 


The  Indian  girl  drove  reluctantly  away;  pres 
ently  her  canvas  wagon  was  but  a  dim  gray 
silhouette  upon  the  horizon. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

THE  RIVAL  CAMPERS 

X  TORTHWARD  by  lazy  canal  and  shadowy 
JL\  hummock,  northward  by  a  river  freckled 
with  sand  bars,  Diane  came  in  time  to  a  quiet  lake 
where  purple  martins  winged  ceaselessly  over  a 
tangled  float  of  lilies — where  now  and  then  an 
otter  swam  and  dipped  with  a  noiseless  ripple  of 
water — where  ground  doves  fluttered  fearlessly 
about  the  camp  as  Johnny  pitched  the  tents  at 
noonday. 

But  for  all  the  whir  and  flash  of  brilliant  bird- 
life  above  the  placid  water  —  for  all  the  screams 
of  the  fish  hawks  and  the  noise  of  crows  and 
grackle  in  the  cypress  —  for  all  the  presence  of 
another  camper  among  the  trees  to  the  west,  the 
days  were  quiet  and  undisturbed.  And  at  night 
when  the  birds  were  winging  to  the  woods  now 
black  against  the  yellow  west,  and  the  lonely  lake 
began  to  purple,  the  fires  of  the  rival  camps  were 
the  single  spots  of  color  in  the  heavy  darkness 
along  the  shore. 

Diane  wrote  of  it,  with  disastrous  results,  to 
Aunt  Agatha. 

At  sunset,  one  day,  a  carriage  produced  an 
aggrieved  rustle  of  silk,  a  voice  and  a  hand  bag. 

340 


The  Rival  Campers  341 

Each  fluttered  a  little  as  the  driver  accepted  his 
fare  and  rolled  away.  The  hand  bag,  in  accord 
ance  with  a  sensational  and  ill-conditioned  habit 
which  had  roused  more  than  one  unpopular  com 
motion  in  crowded  department  stores  and  thor 
oughfares,  leaped  unexpectedly  from  a  gloved 
and  fluttering  hand. 

Aunt  Agatha  possessed  herself  of  the  bag  with 
a  sniff  and  rustled  heedlessly  into  the  nearest 
camp. 

It  was,  of  course,  Mr.  Poynter's. 

Utterly  confounded  by  the  unexpected  sight  of 
a  tall  young  man  who  was  cooking  a  fish  over 
the  fire,  Aunt  Agatha  gurgled  fearfully  and 
backed  precipitately  into  the  nearest  tree,  whence 
the  ill-natured  hand  bag  forcibly  opened  a  grin 
ning  mouth,  leaped  into  space  and  disgorged  a 
flying  shower  of  nickels  and  dimes,  smelling  salts 
and  hairpins  and  a  variety  of  fussy  contrivances 
of  sentimental  value. 

"  God  bless  my  soul ! "  bleated  Aunt  Agatha 
with  round,  affrighted  eyes,  "  there's  a  dime  in  the 
fish!  And  I  do  beg  your  pardon,  young  man, 
but  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  poke  the  smelling 
salts  out  of  the  fire  before  they  explode." 

There  was  little  likelihood  of  the  final 
catastrophe,  but  Mr.  Poynter  obeyed.  Laughing 
a  little  as  he  collected  the  scattered  cargo,  he  good- 
humoredly  suggested  that  he  was  not  nearly  so 


842        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

dangerous  as  Aunt  Agatha's  petrified  gaze  sug 
gested,  and  that  possibly  she  might  remember  him 
—  his  name  was  Poynter — and  that  Miss  West- 
fall's  camp  lay  a  little  farther  to  the  east. 

Aunt  Agatha  departed,  greatly  impressed  by 
his  gallantry  and  common  sense.  Arriving  in  the 
camp  of  her  niece,  she  roused  an  alarming  commo 
tion  by  halting  unobserved  among  the  trees,  star 
ing  hard  at  her  niece's  back-hair,  dropping  her 
hand  bag,  and  bursting  into  tears  that  brought 
the  startled  campers  to  her  side  in  a  twinkling. 

"Great  Scott,  Johnny!'*  exclaimed  Diane, 
aghast.  "It's  Aunt  Agatha!" 

Aunt  Agatha  dangerously  motioned  them 
away  with  the  hand  bag  Johnny  had  returned. 

"  I'll  be  all  right  in  a  minute! "  she  sniffed  tear 
fully.  "Mamma  was  that  way,  too  —  mamma 
was.  Tears  would  burst  right  out  of  her,  espe 
cially  when  she  grew  so  stout.  I  can't  help  it! 
When  I  think  of  all  I've  gone  through  with  you 
off  in  the  Green-glades  or  the  Never-glades  or 
whatever  they  are — and  worrying  all  the  time 
about  your  scalp  and  alligators  —  and  you  sitting 
there  so  peaceful,  Diane,  with  your  hair  still  on  - 
I've  got  to  cry — I  just  have  and  I  will. 
And  Carl's  mysteriously  disappeared  —  Heaven 
knows  where!  I've  not  seen  him  for  weeks.  Nor 
did  he  condescend  to  write  me  —  as  I  must  say  you 
did  —  and  very  good  of  you  too!"  Whether 


The  Rival  Campers  343 

Aunt  Agatha  was  crying  because  her  mother  was 
stout  and  eruptively  lachrymose,  or  because 
Diane's  hair  was  still  where  it  belonged,  or  because 
Carl  was  missing,  Diane  could  not  be  sure. 

Aunt  Agatha  puffed  presently  to  a  seat  by  the 
fire,  with  hair  and  hat  awry,  and  dropped  her 
hand  bag. 

"Johnny,"  she  said  severely,  "don't  stare  so. 
I'm  sorry  of  course  that  I  made  you  drop  the  ket 
tle  when  I  came,  I  am  indeed,  but  I'm  here  and 
there's  the  kettle  —  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"Of  course  it  is!"  exclaimed  Diane,  kissing 
her  heartily.  "  And  I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you, 
Aunt  Agatha,  tears  and  all!" 

There  was  some  little  difficulty  in  persuading 
Aunt  Agatha  of  the  truth  of  this,  but  she  pres 
ently  removed  her  hat,  narrowly  escaped  drop 
ping  it  into  the  fire,  and  consigned  it,  along  with 
the  athletic  hand  bag,  to  Johnny. 

Now  Diane  with  a  furtive  glance  at  Philip's 
camp,  had  been  hostilely  considering  the  dis 
couraging  effect  of  Aunt  Agatha's  presence 
upon  the  rival  camper.  That  Aunt  Agatha 
would  presently  discern  degenerative  traces  of 
criminality  in  his  face  by  reason  of  his  reprehen 
sible  proximity  to  her  niece's  camp,  Diane  did  not 
doubt.  That  the  aggrieved  lady  would  call  upon 
him  within  a  day  or  so  and  air  her  rigid  notions 


844        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

of  propriety  and  convention,  was  well  within  the 
range  of  probability.  Wherefore  — 

Aunt  Agatha  broke  plaintively  in  upon  her 
thoughts. 

"If  you  would  only  listen,  Diane!"  she  com 
plained.  "  I've  spoken  three  times  of  your  grand 
father's  old  estate  and  dear  knows  you  ought  to 
remember  it — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Aunt!"  stammered  the 
girl  sincerely. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Aunt  Agatha  with  dignity, 
"  I  deserve  some  attention.  What  with  the  dark, 
gloomy  rooms  of  the  house  and  the  cobwebs  and 
cranky  spiders — and  the  people  of  St.  Augus 
tine  believing  it  to  be  haunted  —  so  that  I  could 
scarcely  keep  a  servant  —  and  green  mould  in  the 
cellar — and  a  croquet  set — and  waiting  down 
South  when  I  distinctly  promised  to  go  back  with 
the  Sherrills  in  March  —  I  take  it  very  hard  of 
you,  Diane,  to  be  so  absent-minded.  Ugh !  How 
dark  the  lake  has  grown  and  the  wind  and  the 
noise  of  the  water.  There's  hardly  a  star.  Diane, 
I  do  wonder  how  you  stand  it.  The  shore  looks 
like  bands  of  mourning  crepe.  And  in  the  midst 
of  it  all,  Diane,  there  in  St.  Augustine,  the  Baron 
aeroplaned  the  top  off  the  Carroll's  orchard — " 

"Aunt  Agatha!"  begged  the  girl  helplessly. 
"  What  in  the  world  is  it  all  about  ? " 

Aunt  Agatha  flushed  guiltily. 


The  Rival  Campers  345 

"  Why  is  it,"  she  demanded,  "  that  no  one  ever 
seems  to  understand  what  I'm  saying?  Dear 
knows  I  haven't  a  harelip  or  even  a  lisp.  Why, 
Baron  Tregar,  my  dear.  He's  been  staying  in  St. 
Augustine,  too.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  had 
deliberately  followed  me  there — though  of 
course  that  couldn't  be.  And  the  Prince  too. 
And  the  Baron  bought  an  aeroplane  to  amuse 
himself  and  annoy  the  Carrolls  —  " 

Aunt  Agatha  flushed  again,  cleared  her  throat 
and  looked  away.  Why  Ronador  was  in  St. 
Augustine  she  knew  well  enough.  He  had  waited 
near  her,  successfully,  for  news  of  Diane.  And 
though  the  Baron  had  been  very  quiet,  he  had  kept 
his  eye  upon  the  Prince.  Aunt  Agatha  had  for 
once  been  the  startled  hub  of  intrigue. 

"  And  what  with  the  driver  mumbling  to  him 
self  this  afternoon  because  I  lost  my  umbrella 
and  made  him  go  back,  and  the  horse  having 
ribs,"  she  complained,  shying  from  a  topic  which 
contained  dangerous  possibilities  of  revealing  a 
certain  indiscretion,  "  I  do  wonder  I'm  here  at  all. 
And  the  young  man  was  very  decent  about  the 
dime  in  his  fish — though  I'm  sure  he  burned  his 
fingers  digging  for  the  smelling  salts  —  for  they'd 
already  begun  to  sizzle  —  but  dear  me !  Diane,  you 
can't  imagine  how  I  jarred  my  spine  and  my 
switch  —  I  did  think  for  a  minute  it  would  tumble 
off — and  he  was  so  quick  and  pleasant  to  collect 


846        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

the  nickels  and  hairpins.  Such  a  pleasant,  com 
fortable  sort  of  chap.  I  remember  now  he  was  at 
the  SherrilTs  and  very  good-looking,  too,  I  must 
say,  and  very  lonely  too,  I'll  wager,  camping 
about  for  his  health.  He  didn't  say  anything 
about  his  health,  but  one  can  see  by  his  eyes  that 
he's  troubled  about  it." 

"  Aunt  Agatha ! "  begged  Diane  helplessly  in  a 
flash  of  foreboding,  "what  in  creation  are  you 
trying  to  say?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Poynter,  of  course!"  exclaimed 
Aunt  Agatha.  *  The  hand  bag  shot  into  his  camp 
and  spilled  nickels,  and  I  bumped  into  a  tree  and 
jarred  my  switch.  And  a  very  fine  fellow  he  is, 
to  be  sure ! " 

Diane  stared. 

It  was  like  Aunt  Agatha  to  blunder  into  the 
wrong  camp.  And  surely  it  was  like  Philip  to 
win  her  favor  by  chance. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

THE  TALE  OF  A  CANDLESTICK 

friendship  of  Aunt  Agatha  and  Mr. 
J.  Poynter  miraculously  grew.  Aunt  Agatha, 
upon  the  following  morning,  took  to  wandering 
vaguely  about  the  wooded  shore  and  into  Philip's 
camp,  impelled  by  gracious  concern  for  his 
health,  which  she  insisted  upon  regarding  as  im 
paired,  and  by  effusive  gratitude  for  such  trifling 
civilities  as  he  had  readily  proffered  the  day  be 
fore.  From  there  she  wandered  vaguely  back 
to  her  niece's  camp  fire  in  a  chronic  state  of  worry 
about  Carl.  Discontented,  unfailing  in  her  mel 
ancholy  reminiscences  of  cannibalistic  snakes  and 
herons,  Aunt  Agatha  plainly  had  no  immediate 
intentions  of  any  sort.  She  had  no  intention  of 
lingering  in  camp,  she  said,  accoutered  solely 
with  a  hand  bag!  And  she  had  no  intention — no 
indeed!  —  of  departing  until  Diane  went  back 
with  her  to  the  deserted  Westfall  house  in  St. 
Augustine,  with  the  green  mould  and  the  cob 
webs  and  cranky  spiders  and  the  croquet  set  in 
the  cellar.  Arcadia,  if  Diane  had  not  crushed 
the  memory  out  of  her  heart,  had  had  a  parallel. 
Greatly  disturbed  by  her  aunt's  melancholy 
state  of  uncertainty,  Diane  one  morning  watched 

347 


848        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

her  set  forth  to  gather  lilies  in  the  region  of 
Philip's  camp. 

The  woodland  about  was  very  quiet.  Diane  lay 
back  against  the  tree  trunk  and  closed  her  eyes, 
listening  to  the  welcome  gypsy  voices  of  wind  and 
water,  to  the  noisy  clapper  rails  in  the  island  grass 
at  the  end  of  the  lake  and  to  the  drone  of  a  motor 
on  the  road  to  the  north.  Dimly  conscious  that 
Johnny  was  briskly  scrubbing  the  rude  table 
among  the  trees,  she  fell  asleep. 

When  she  awoke,  with  a  nervous  start,  Johnny 
was  down  at  the  edge  of  the  lake  scouring  pans 
with  sand  and  whistling  blithely.  Off  there  to 
the  west,  with  Aunt  Agatha  fussing  at  his  heels, 
Philip  was  good-naturedly  gathering  the  lilies  at 
the  water's  edge.  And  some  one  was  approach 
ing  camp  from  the  northern  road. 

Diane  glanced  carelessly  to  the  north  and 
sprang  to  her  feet  with  wild  scarlet  in  her  cheeks. 

Ronador  was  coming  through  the  forest. 

His  color  was  a  little  high,  his  eyes,  beneath  the 
peak  of  his  motoring  cap  profoundly  apologetic, 
but  he  was  easier  in  manner  than  Diane. 

"I'm  offending,  I  know,"  he  said  steadily, 
"and  I  crave  forgiveness,  but  muster  an  indif 
ferent  gift  of  patience  as  best  I  may,  I  can  not 
wait.  It  is  weeks,  you  recall  —  " 

Diane  flushed  brightly. 


The  Tale  of  a  Candlestick       349 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I  know.  I  have  been  in  the 
Everglades." 

"  Your  aunt  told  me."  Ronador  searched  her 
face  suddenly  with  peculiar  intentness.  He  might 
have  added,  with  perfect  truth,  that  to  Aunt 
Agatha,  who  had  indiscreetly  afforded  him  a 
glimpse  of  her  niece's  letter,  might  be  attributed 
the  halting  of  the  long,  black  car  on  the  road  to 
the  north.  'You  have  no  single  word  of  wel 
come,  then!"  he  reproached  abruptly  and  im 
patiently  brushed  his  hair  back  from  his  forehead 
with  a  hand  that  shook  a  little. 

From  the  north  came  the  clatter  of  a  motor 
cycle. 

Diane  held  out  her  hand. 

"Let  us  make  a  mutual  compact!"  she  ex 
claimed  frankly.  "I  have  overstrained  your 
patience — you  have  startled  me.  Let  us  both 
forgive.  In  a  sense  we  have  neither  of  us  kept 
strictly  to  the  letter  of  our  agreement." 

Ronador  bent  with  deference  over  the  girl's 
outstretched  hand  and  brushed  it  lightly  with  his 
lips,  unconscious  that  her  face  had  grown  very 
white  and  troubled.  Nor  in  his  impetuous  relief 
was  he  aware  that  other  eyes  had  witnessed  the 
eloquent  tableau  and  that  Aunt  Agatha  had  ar 
rived  in  camp  with  an  escort  who  quietly  deposited 
an  armful  of  dripping  lilies  upon  the  camp  table 
and  oddly  enough  made  no  effort  to  retire. 


850        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

When  at  length,  conscious  of  the  electric  con 
straint  of  the  atmosphere,  Ronador  wheeled  un 
comfortably  and  met  Philip's  level  glance,  he 
stared  and  reddened,  hot  insolent  anger  in  the 
flash  of  his  eyes  and  the  curl  of  his  lips. 

"Dear  me!"  faltered  Aunt  Agatha,  guiltily 
conscious  of  the  letter,  "I  am  surprised,  I  am 
indeed!  Who  ever  would  have  thought  of  seeing 
you  here,  Prince,  among  the  trees  and  —  and  the 
ground  doves  and — and  all  the  lilies! "  The  un 
fortunate  lady,  convinced  by  now  that  Ronador's 
apparent  resentment  concerned,  in  some  inex 
plicable  way,  her  escort,  herself  and  the  lilies, 
glanced  beseechingly  about  her.  "And  what 
with  the  lilies,"  she  burst  forth  desperately  in 
apology  for  the  inopportune  arrival  of  herself  and 
her  escort,  "  what  with  the  lilies,  Prince,  and  the 
water  so  wet — though,  dear  me!  it  was  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  of  course — growing  wild  in  the 
water  that  way — and  only  one  gown  and  the 
hand  bag — though  to  be  sure  I  can't  wear  the 
hand  bag,  and  wouldn't  if  I  could  —  Mr.  Poyn- 
ter,  with  his  usual  courtesy  was  good  enough  to 
carry  the  lilies  into  camp  when  I  asked  him." 

'Mr.  Poynter  was  undoubtedly  very  good, 
Aunt  Agatha,"  said  Diane  quietly,  "  but  the  lilies 
scarcely  require  any  further  attention." 

Still  Mr.  Poynter  did  not  stir. 

"I  regret  exceedingly,"  he  said  formally  to 


The  Tale  of  a  Candlestick       351 

Diane,  "  that  I  am  unable  to  avail  myself  of  your 
cordial  permission  to  retire.  Unfortunately,  I 
have  urgent  business  with  Prince  Ronador. 
Indeed,  I  have  waited  for  just  such  an  opportun 
ity  as  this." 

He  was  by  far  the  calmest  of  the  four.  Rona- 
dor's  violent  temper  was  rapidly  routing  his 
studied  composure.  Diane's  lovely  face  was 
flushed  and  indignant.  Aunt  Agatha,  making  a 
desperate  pretense  of  sorting  the  lilies,  was 
plainly  in  a  flutter  and  willing  to  be  tearfully 
repentent  over  their  intrusion.  Not  so  Philip. 
There  was  satisfaction  in  his  steady  glance. 

"  There  is  scarcely  any  business  which  I  may 
have  with  —  er  —  Tregar's  secretary,"  said  Ron 
ador  with  deliberate  insolence,  "  which  may  not 
be  more  suitably  discharged  by  Tregar  himself." 

There  was  a  biting  suggestion  of  rank  in  his- 
answer  at  which  Philip  smiled. 

"My  spread-eagle  tastes,"  he  admitted,  "have 
always  protected  my  eyes  from  the  bedazzlement 
frequently  incident  to  the  sight  of  royalty.  Nor 
do  I  wish  to  flaunt  unduly  my  excellent  fortune  in 
being  born  an  American  and  a  democrat,  but  for 
once,  Prince,  we  must  overlook  your  trifling  dis 
advantage  of  caste  and  meet  on  a  common  foot 
ing.  Permit  me  to  offer  my  humble  secretarial 
apology  that  the  business  is  wholly  mine  —  and 
one  other's  —  and  not  my  chief's." 


852        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Here  Aunt  Agatha  created  a  singular  diver 
sion  by  dropping  the  lilies  and  gurgling  with 
amazement. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  she  screamed  hysteric 
ally,  conscious  that  her  indiscretion  was  rapidly 
weaving  a  web  around  her  which  might  not  find 
favor  in  her  niece's  eyes,  "it's  Baron  Tregar!  I 
know  his  beard." 

Now  as  it  was  manifestly  impossible  for  the 
Baron  and  his  beard  to  be  secreted  among  the  lilies 
which  Aunt  Agatha  was  wildly  gathering  up, 
Philip  looked  off  in  the  wood  to  the  north. 

There  was  a  motorcyclist  approaching  who  had 
conceivably  felt  sufficient  interest  in  the  long 
black  car  to  follow  it. 

The  Baron  arrived,  gallantly  swept  off  his  cap 
and  bowed,  and  suddenly  conscious  of  an  indefin 
able  hostility  in  the  attitudes  of  the  silent  quartet, 
stared  from  one  to  the  other  with  some  pardon 
able  astonishment. 

"  Tregar! "  shouted  the  Prince  hotly,  "  you  will 
account  to  me  for  this  officious  espionage." 

The  Baron  stroked  his  beard. 

"  One  may  pay  his  respects  to  Miss  Westfall  ? " 
he  begged  with  gentle  sarcasm.  "  It  is  a  suffi 
ciently  popular  epidemic,  I  should  say,  to  claim 
even  me.  Besides,"  he  added  dryly,  "  in  reality 
I  have  come  in  answer  to  a  letter  of  Poynter's.  It 


The  Tale  ot  a  Candlestick       353 

has  interested  me  exceedingly  to  find  you  on  the 
road  ahead  of  me." 

"  Baron  Tregar,"  said  Diane  warmly,  "  you  are 
very  welcome,  I  assure  you.  Mr.  Poynter  has 
been  pleased  to  inject  certain  elements  of  melo 
drama  into  his  chance  intrusion.  Otherwise  you 
would  not  find  us  staring  at  each  other  in  this  ex 
ceedingly  ridiculous  manner!" 

"Hum!"  said  the  Baron  blandly  and  glanced 
with  interest  at  the  undisturbed  countenance  of 
Mr.  Poynter. 

"  A  mere  matter  of  justice  and  belated  frank 
ness  to  Miss  Westfall! "  said  Philip  quietly.  "  I 
must  respectfully  beg  Prince  Ronador  to  disclose 
to  her  the  original  motive  of  his  singular  and 
highly  romantic  courtship.  I  bear  an  urgent 
message  of  similar  import  from  one  who  has  had 
the  distinction  of  playing — imperial  chess!" 

They  were  curious  words  but  not  so  curious  in 
substance  as  in  effect.  With  a  cry  of  startled 
anger,  Ronador  leaped  back,  his  eyes  flashing  ter 
rible  menace  at  Philip.  There  was  only  one  pair 
of  eyes,  however,  quick  and  keen  enough,  for  all 
their  loveliness,  to  follow  his  swift  movement  or 
the  glitter  of  steel  in  his  hand. 

With  a  cry  of  fear  and  horror,  Diane  leaped 
like  a  wild  thing  and  struck  his  hand  aside.  A 
revolver  fell  at  her  feet.  Aunt  Agatha  screamed 
and  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands. 


854        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

In  the  tense  quiet  came  the  tranquil  lap  of  the 
lake,  the  call  of  a  distant  bird,  the  lazy  murmur  of 
many  leaves  in  a  morning  wind.  Philip  stood 
very  quietly  by  the  table.  He  looked  at  Diane; 
he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  others,  Tregar 
thought. 

With  terrible  anger  in  her  flashing  eyes,  Diane 
flung  the  revolver  into  the  placid  lake,  and  facing 
Ronador,  her  sweet,  stern  mouth  contemptuous, 
she  met  his  imploring  gaze  with  one  of  scathing 
rebuke. 

"  Excellency,"  she  said  to  Ronador,  "  whatever 
else  Mr.  Poynter  may  have  in  mind,  there  is 
surely  now  an  explanation  which  it  behooves  you 
to  make  as  a  gentleman  who  is  not  a  coward! " 

Ronador  moistened  his  white  lips  and  looked 
away. 

Trembling  violently  she  turned  to  Philip. 

"Philip!"  she  cried.  "What  is  it?"  As 
her  eyes  met  his,  her  hand  went  to  her  heart 
and  the  color  swept  in  brilliant  tide  from  the  slim 
brown  throat  to  the  questioning  eyes.  "Oh, 
Philip!  Philip!"  She  choked  and  fell  again  to 
trembling.  It  was  a  cry  of  remorse  and  heart 
broken  apology  for  the  memory  of  a  moon  above 
the  marsh. 

For  somehow  in  that  instant,  by  a  freak  of  in 
stinct,  the  rain  and  the  wind  of  Okeechobee  and 
the  bird  in  the  pines  came  into  their  own.  Their 


The  Tale  of  a  Candlestick       355 

subtle  messages  dovetailed  with  the  hurt  look  in 
Philip's  eyes  —  with  the  conviction  of  the  girl's 
sore  heart,  unconquerable  for  all  she  had  desper 
ately  fought  it — with  the  revelation  of  treachery 
which  lay  now  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake. 

Philip  was  very  white. 

"  But,"  he  said  gently,  "  you  could  not  know." 

"I  could  have  waited  and  trusted,"  cried  the 
girl.  "  I  could  have  remembered  Arcadia! " 

Was  Ronador  forgotten?  Tregar  thought  so. 
These  two  mutely  avowing  with  blazing  eyes  their 
utter  trust  and  loyalty  had  for  the  moment  for 
gotten  everything  but  each  other. 

Ronador  stalked  viciously  away  to  the  lake, 
restlessly  turned  on  his  heel  with  a  curse  and  came 
slowly  back.  There  was  despair  in  his  eyes.  Tre 
gar  thought  of  the  black  moments  of  impulse  and 
the  tearing  conscience  and  pitied  him  profoundly. 

"Excellency,"  reminded  Diane,  "there  is  an 
explanation  —  " 

But  Ronador's  pallid  lips  were  set  in  lines  of 
fierce  denial. 

"  Philip ! "  appealed  the  girl. 

"  Well,"  said  Philip  looking  away,  "  it's  a  tale 
of  a  candlestick." 

"A  candlestick!" 

"  And  a  hidden  paper." 

"Yes?" 

Ronador  seemed  about  to  speak,  thought  bet- 


Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

ter  of  it  and  closed  his  lips  in  a  tense  white  line  of 
sullenness. 

Philip  glanced  keenly  at  him,  and  his  own 
mouth  grew  a  little  sterner. 

"  Excellency,"  he  said  to  Ronador,  "  that  you 
may  not  feel  impelled  again  to  violence  in  the  sup 
pression  of  this  curious  fragment  of  family 
history,  let  me  warn  you  that  the  story  has  been 
entrusted  in  full  to  Father  Joda,  who  knew  and 
loved  your  cousin.  Any  spectacular  irrationality 
that  you  may  hereafter  develop  in  connection 
with  Miss  Westfall,  will  lead  to  its  disclosure. 
He  is  pledged  to  that  in  writing." 

The  color  died  out  of  Ronador's  face.  The  fire, 
roused  by  the  specter  he  had  fought  this  many  a 
dat,  burned  itself  quite  to  ashes  and  left  him  cold 
and  sullen.  He  had  played  and  lost.  And  he  was 
an  older  and  quieter  man  for  the  losing.  What 
ever  else  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  contradictory 
maze  of  dark  moods  and  passions,  he  had  courage 
and  the  curse  of  conscience.  There  were  black 
memories  struggling  now  within  him. 

Tregar  moved  quietly  to  Ronador's  side,  an  act 
of  ready  loyalty  not  without  dignity  in  the  eyes 
of  Philip. 

'  Your  letter  hinted  something  of  all  this,"  he 
said.  "  Let  us  be  quite  fair,  Poynter.  Ronador 
feared  only  for  his  little  son." 

"Why  must  we  talk  in  riddles?"  cried  Diane 


The  Tale  of  a  Candlestick       357 

with  a  flash  of  impatience.  "  Why  does  Ronador 
fear  for  his  son?  Where  is  the  candlestick?  And 
the  paper?  Who  found  it?" 

"  Carl  found  it,"  said  Philip.  "  It  was  written 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  by  one  —  Theo- 
domir  of  Houdania." 

Diane  glanced  in  utter  mystification  at  Rona- 
dor's  ashen  face — there  was  a  great  fear  in  his 
eyes  —  and  thence  to  Baron  Tregar. 

"Excellency,"  she  appealed,  "it  is  all  very- 
hard  to  understand.  Who  is  Theodomir?  And 
why  must  his  life  touch  mine  after  all  these 
years?" 

The  Baron  cleared  his  throat. 

"Let  me  try  to  make  it  simpler,"  he  said 
gravely.  "Theodomir,  Miss  Westfall,  was  a 
lovable,  willful,  over-democratic  young  crown 
prince  of  Houdania  who,  many  years  ago,  re 
fused  the  responsibilities  of  a  royal  position 
whose  pomp  and  pretensions  he  despised — quot 
ing  Buddha  —  and  fled  to  America  where  in  the 
course  of  time  he  married,  divorced  his  wife  and 
later  died — incognito.  He  was  Ronador's  cou 
sin,  and  his  flight  shifted  the  regency  of  the  king 
dom  to  Ronador's  father." 

1  Yes,"  said  the  girl  steadily,  "that  is  very 
clear." 

'Theodomir   married  —  and   divorced — your 
mother,"  said  Philip  gently. 


358        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Diane  grew  very  white. 

"And  even  yet,"  she  said  bravely,  "I — can 
not  see  why  we  must  all  be  so  worked  up.  There 
is  more?" 

"  Yes.  Later,  after  her  divorce  from  Theodo- 
mir,  your  mother  married  Norman  Westf  all  - 

"  My  father,"  corrected  Diane  swiftly. 

Philip  looked  away. 

"  Her  second  marriage,"  he  said  at  last,  "  was 
childless." 

"  Philip ! "  Diane's  face  flamed.    "  And  I  ? " 

"  You,"  said  Baron  Tregar,  "  are  the  child  of 
Theodomir." 

In  the  strained  silence  a  bird  sent  a  sweet, 
clear  call  ringing  lightly  over  the  water. 

"That— that  can  not  be!"  faltered  Diane. 
"It — it  is  too  preposterous." 

"I  wish  to  Heaven  it  were!"  said  Philip 
quietly.  "Whether  or  not  it  was  Theodomir's 
wish  that  his  daughter  be  reared,  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world,  as  the  daughter  of  Norman  Westfall, 
to  protect  her  from  any  consequences  incident  to 
his  possible  discovery  and  enforced  return  to 
Houdania,  it  is  impossible  to  say.  Hating  roy 
alty  as  he  did,  he  may  have  sought  thus  to  shield 
his  daughter  from  its  taint.  Why  he  weakened 
and  consigned  the  secret  to  paper — how  or  when 
he  hid  it  in  an  ancient  candlestick  in  the  home  of 
Norman  Westfall,  remains  shrouded  in  utter 


The  Tale  of  a  Candlestick       359 

mystery.  It  is  but  one  of  the  many  points  that 
need  light." 

Again  the  Baron  cleared  his  throat. 

"  And,"  said  he,  "  since  unwisely,  Miss  West- 
fall,  for  eugenic  reasons,  we  grant  a  certain  free 
dom  of  marital  choice  to  our  princes  —  since 
wisely  or  not  as  you  will,  the  Salic  Law  does  not, 
by  an  ancient  precedent,  obtain  with  us,  and  a 
woman  may  come  in  the  line  of  succession,  the 
danger  to  Ronador's  little  son,  is,  I  think,  appa 
rent." 

"  Surely,  surely! "  exclaimed  Diane  hopelessly, 
"  there  is  some  mistake.  There  is  so  much  that  is 
utterly  without  light  or  coherence.  So  much  — 

For  the  first  time  Ronador  spoke. 

"What,"  said  he  sullenly  to  Philip,  "would 
you  have  us  do?" 

"  I  would  have  you  eliminate  the  secrecy,  the 
infernal  intrigue,  the  scheming  to  smother  a  fire 
that  burned  wilder  for  your  efforts,"  said  Philip 
civilly.  "I  would  have  you  face  this  thing 
squarely  and  investigate  it  link  by  link.  I  would 
have  you  abandon  the  damnable  man-hunt  that 
has  sent  one  man  to  his  death  in  a  Florida  swamp 
and  goaded  another  to  a  reckless  frenzy  in  which 
all  things  were  possible.  Themar  is  dead.  That 
Cranberry  is  alive  is  attributable  solely  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  cleverer  and  keener  than  any  of 
those  who  hounded  him.  But  he  has  paid  heavily 


360        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

for  the  secret  he  tried  in  a  drunken  moment  to 
sell  to  Houdania." 

"  I  do  not  understand  Carl's  part  in  it,"  said 
Diane.  "  Nor  can  I  see  — 

But  whatever  it  was  that  Diane  could  not  see 
was  not  destined  for  immediate  revealment.  At 
the  mention  of  Carl's  name  by  her  niece,  Aunt 
Agatha  came  unexpectedly  into  the  limelight 
with  a  gurgle  and  fainted  dead  away.  Her  white 
affrighted  face  had  been  turned  upon  Ronador 
in  fearful  fascination  since  Diane  had  struck  his 
arm.  Whether  or  not  she  had  comprehended 
any  of  the  talk  that  followed  is  a  matter  of  doubt. 

\  v  lien  at  last,  after  an  interval  of  flurry  and 
excitement  in  the  camp,  Aunt  Agatha  gasped, 
sat  up  again  and  stared  wildly  at  the  sympa 
thetic  line  of  faces  about  her,  Ronador  was  gone. 
When  or  where  he  had  gone,  no  one  knew.  Only 
Diane  caught  the  whir  of  his  motor  on  the  road 
to  the  north. 

"  It  is  better  so,"  said  Tregar  compassionately. 
'  Though  his  love  began  in  treachery,  Miss  West- 
fall,  and  drove  him  through  the  mire,  it  was,  I 
think,  genuine.  A  man  may  not  see  his  hopes  take 
wing  with  comfort.  And  Ronador's  life  has  not 
been  of  the  happiest." 

"  Excellency,"  said  Philip  who  had  been  wan 
dering  restlessly  about  among  the  trees,  "  I  know 
that  you  are  but  an  indifferent  gypsy  and 


The  Tale  of  a  Candlestick      361 

strongly  averse  to  baked  potatoes,  but  such  as  it 
is,  let  me  extend  to  you  the  hospitality  of  my 
camp.  Doubtless  Miss  Westfall  will  dispatch 
Johnny  for  your  motorcycle." 

The  Baron  accepted. 

"  There  is  one  thing  more,  Miss  Westfall,"  he 
added  as  they  were  leaving.  "  Frankness  is  such 
a  refreshing  experience  for  me,  that  I  must  drink 
of  the  fount  again.  Days  back,  a  headstrong 
young  secretary  of  mine  of  considerable  nerve 
and  independence  and — er — intermittent  disre 
spect  for  his  chief — having  come  to  grief 
through  a  knife  of  Themar's  intended  for  another 
—  refused,  with  a  habit  of  infernal  politeness  he 
has  which  I  find  most  maddening,  refused, 
mademoiselle,  to  execute  a  certain  little  commis 
sion  of  mine  because  he  quixotically  fancied  it 
savored  of  spying! " 

"  Tregar ! "  said  Philip  with  an  indignant  flush. 
And  added  with  an  uncomfortable  conviction  of 
disrespect,  "  Er — Excellency ! " 

"I  said — intermittent  disrespect,"  reminded 
Tregar.  "  Moreover,"  he  continued,  stroking  his 
beard  and  selecting  his  words  with  the  precision 
of  the  careful  linguist  that  he  was,  "  this  secretary 
of  mine,  after  an  interview  of  most  disconcerting 
candor,  took  to  the  road  and  a  hay-cart  in  a 
dudgeon,  constituting  himself,  in  a  characteristic 
outburst  of  suspicion,  quixotism,  chivalry  and 


362        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

protection,  a  sentinel  to  whom  lack  of  sleep,  the 
discomforts  of  a  hay-camp — and — er — spying 
black-and-tans  were  nothing.  I  have  reason  for 
suspecting  that  he  may  have  been  misrepresented 
and  misjudged — 

"Excellency,"  said  Philip  shortly,  "my  camp 
lies  yonder.  And  Mrs.  Westfall  will  doubtless 
rejoice  when  her  niece's  camp  is  quiet." 

Diane  met  the  Baron's  glance  with  a  bright 
flush. 

"  Excellency,"  she  said,  "  I  thank  you." 

The  two  men  disappeared  among  the  trees. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

THE   GYPSY   BLOOD 

IT  WAS  a  curious  puzzle  which,  through  the 
quiet  of  the  afternoon  that  followed,  Diane 
sought  desperately  to  assemble  from  the  chaos  of 
highly-colored  segments  which  the  morning 
had  supplied.  There  were  intervals  when  she  re 
jected  the  result,  with  its  maddening  gaps  and 
imperfections,  with  a  laugh  of  utter  derision — it 
was  so  preposterous!  There  were  quieter  inter 
vals  when  she  pieced  the  impossible  segments  all 
together  again  and  stared  aghast  at  the  result. 
No  matter  how  incredulous  her  attitude,  however, 
when  the  scattered  angles  slipped  into  unity,  riv 
eted  together  by  a  painful  concentration,  the 
result,  with  its  consequent  light  upon  the  wooing 
of  Ronador,  though  more  and  more  startling,  was 
in  the  main  convincing. 

Days  back  in  Arcadia  Diane  remembered  the 
Baron  had  suavely  spoken  of  his  kingdom,  and 
Philip  had  told  her  much.  There  was  a  mad  king 
without  issue  upon  the  throne.  There  were  two 
brothers  of  the  mad  king,  each  of  whom  had  a  son. 
Theodomir,  then,  had  been  the  son  of  the  elder, 
Ronador  of  the  younger.  Theodomir  had  fled  at 
the  death  of  his  father,  unwilling  to  take  up  the 

363 


864        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

regency  under  a  mad  king.  So  Ronador's  father 
had  come  to  the  regency  of  the  kingdom  and 
Ronador  himself  and  his  little  son  had  stood  in 
the  direct  line  of  succession  until  the  ghost  arose 
from  the  candlestick  and  mocked  them  all.  And 
she — Diane — was  the  child  of  Theodomir. 

Diane  was  still  dazedly  sorting  the  pieces  of 
the  puzzle  when  the  sun  set  in  a  red  glory  beyond 
the  lake,  matching  the  flame  of  Philip's  fire  by 
which  he  and  the  Baron  sat  in  earnest  discussion. 

The  west  was  faintly  yellow,  the  forest  dark, 
when  from  the  tent  to  which  she  had  retired  at 
noon,  quite  distraught  and  incoherent,  Aunt 
Agatha  begged  plaintively  for  a  cup  of  tea. 

"  Diane,"  she  said,  when  the  girl  herself  ap 
peared  with  it,  "I  —  I  can't  forget  his  face.  I  - 
I  never  shall.  Twice  now  I've  tried  to  get  up, 
but  I  thought  of  his  eyes  and  the  revolver,  and 
my  knees  folded  up.  It — it  was  just  so  this 
morning.  What  with  the  ringing  in  my  ears- 
and  the  dizziness — and  his  face  so  dark  with 
anger — and  digging  my  heels  in  the  ground  to 
keep  my  knees  from  folding  up  under  me  —  I  — 
I  thought  I  should  go  quite  mad,  quite  mad,  my 
dear.  He— he  meant  to  kill  Mr.  Poynter?" 

"Yes,"  said  Diane  with  a  shudder.  "Yes. 
I— think  so." 

"  I'm,  sorry  I  told  him  where  you  were,"  flut 
tered  Aunt  Agatha,  taking  a  conscience-stricken 


The  Gypsy  Blood  365 

and  somewhat  tearful  gulp  of  very  hot  tea.  "  I 
—  I  am  indeed,  but  I  couldn't  in  the  least  know 
that  he  went  about  killing  people,  could  I, 
Diane?" 

"  No,"  said  Diane  patiently.  "  No,  of  course 
not.  Don't  bother  about  it,  Aunt  Agatha.  Why 
not  wait  until  your  tea  is  a  little  cooler?" 

"I'll  have  to,"  said  Aunt  Agatha  with  an  ag 
grieved  sniff.  "  For  I  do  believe  I'm  filled  with 
steam  now.  Why  are  you  so  white  and  quiet, 
Diane?  Is  it  the  revolver? " 

"Aunt  Agatha,"  exclaimed  the  girl  impetu 
ously,  "why  have  you  always  been  so  reticent 
about  my  mother?" 

The  effect  of  the  girl's  words  was  sufficient 
proof  that  the  frightened  lady  had  absorbed  but 
little  of  Philip's  revelation.  Tired  and  nervous, 
hazily  aware  that  the  scene  of  the  morning  had 
been  portentous,  and  now  confounding  it  in  a 
panic  with  something  that  by  a  deathbed  pledge 
had  lain  inexorably  buried  in  her  heart  for  years, 
Aunt  Agatha  screamed  and  dropped  her  teacup. 
It  rolled  away  in  a  trail  of  steam  to  the  flap  of 
the  tent.  Covering  her  face  with  her  hands, 
Aunt  Agatha  burst  hysterically  into  a  shower  of 
tears. 

Diane  started. 

"Aunt  Agatha,"  she  exclaimed,  "what  is  it? 
For  heaven's  sake,  don't  sob  and  tremble  so." 


366        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"I  —  I  might  have  known  it!"  sobbed  Aunt 
Agatha,  wringing  her  plump  hands  in  genuine 
distress.  "  I  might  have  guessed  they  would  tell 
you  that,  though  how  in  the  world  they  found  it 
out  is  beyond  me.  If  I'd  only  listened  instead  of 
worrying  about  my  knees  and  the  revolver,  and 
staring  so.  And  you  in  the  Everglades  —  where 
your  father  went  to  hunt  alligators.  Oh,  Diane, 
Diane,  not  a  single  night  could  I  sleep  —  and  it's 
not  to  be  wondered  at  that  I  was  scared.  And  the 
dance  you  did  for  Nathalie  Fowler  and  me — and 
the  costume  that  night  at  Sherrill's.  I  was  fairly 
sick!  I  knew  it  would  come  out  —  though  how 
could  I  foresee  that  the  Baron  and  Mr.  Poynter 
and  the  Prince  would  know?  I  —  I  told  your 
grandfather  so  years  ago,  but  he  pledged  me  on 
his  deathbed — and  your  father  was  wild  and 
clever  like  Carl  and  singular  in  his  notions.  I'll 
never  forget  your  grandfather's  face  when  you 
ran  away  into  the  forest  to  sleep  as  a  child.  He 
was  white  and  sick  and  muttered  something 
about  atavism.  It  —  it  was  the  Indian  blood  —  " 

Diane  caught  her  aunt's  trembling  arm  in  a 
grip  that  hurt  cruelly. 

"  Aunt  Agatha,"  she  said,  catching  her  breath 
sharply,  "you  must  not  talk  so  wildly.  Say  it 
plainer!" 

But  Aunt  Agatha   tranquil   was   incoherent. 


The  Gypsy  Blood  367 

Aunt  Agatha  frightened  and  hysterical  was  ut 
terly  beyond  control. 

"  And  very  beautiful  too,"  she  sobbed.  "  And 
Norman,  poor  fellow,  was  quite  mad  about  her 

—  for  all  she  was  an  Indian  girl  —  though  her 
father  was  white  and  a  Spaniard,  I  will  say  that 
for  her.    Not  even  so  dark  as  you  are,  Diane,  and 
shy  and  lovely  enough  to  turn  any  man's  head  — 
much  less  your  father's  —  though  your  grand 
father  stormed  and  threatened  to  kill  them  both 
and  only  for  Grant  he  would  have.    And  when 
an  Indian  from  the  Everglades  told  Norman  that 

—  that  she  really  hadn't  been  married  before  but 
just  a  —  mother  like  Carl's  mother,  my  dear  —  " 

But  Diane  was  gone,  stumbling  headlong  from 
the  tent.  Aunt  Agatha  was  to  remember  her 
white  agonized  face  for  many  a  day, 


CHAPTER  XL VI 

IN   THE   FOREST 

WITH  the  darkening  of  the  night  a  wind 
sprang  up  over  the  bleak,  black  expanse 
of  lake  and  swept  with  a  sigh  through  the  forest 
on  the  shore.  It  was  a  wind  from  the  east  which 
drove  a  film  of  cloud  across  the  stars  and  bore  a 
hint  of  rain  in  its  freshness.  The  rain  itself  pat 
tering  presently  through  the  forest  fell  upon  the 
huddled  figure  of  a  girl  who  lay  face  downward 
upon  the  ground  among  the  trees. 

She  lay  inert,  her  head  pillowed  upon  her  arm, 
face  to  face  with  the  unspeakable  shadow  that  had 
haunted  Carl.  Not  married,  Aunt  Agatha  had 
said,  but  just  a  mother!  Now  the  pitiful  frag 
ments  of  a  hallowed  shrine  lay  mockingly  at  her 
feet.  How  scornfully  she  had  flashed  at  Carl ! 

Diane  quivered  and  lay  very  still,  torn  by  the 
bitter  irony  of  it. 

And  the  Indian  mother!  Carl  had  known  and 
Ronador.  She  had  caught  a  startled  look  in  the 
eyes  of  each  at  the  Sherrill  fete.  Every  wild  in 
stinct,  if  she  had  but  heeded  the  warning,  had 
pointed  the  way;  the  childhood  escapade  in  the 
forest,  the  tomboy  pranks  of  riding  and  running 
and  swimming  that  had  horrified  Aunt  Agatha  to 

368 


In  the  Forest  369 

the  point  of  tears,  and  later  the  persistent  call  of 
the  open  country. 

What  wonder  if  the  soft,  musical  tongue  of  the 
Seminole  had  come  lightly  to  her  lips?  What 
wonder  if  Indian  instincts  had  driven  her  forth 
to  the  wild?  What  wonder  if  the  nameless  stir 
of  atavism  beneath  a  Seminole  wigwam  had 
frightened  her  into  flight.  Indian  instincts,  In 
dian  grace,  Indian  stoicism  and  courage,  Indian 
keenness  and  hearing — all  of  these  had  come  to 
her  from  the  Indian  mother  with  the  blood  of 
white  men  in  her  veins. 

But  the  stain  of  illegitimacy  — 

That  brought  the  girl's  proud  head  down  again 
with  a  strangled  sob  of  grief.  Shaking  pitifully, 
she  fell  forward  unconscious  upon  the  ground. 

Some  one  was  calling.  There  was  rain  and  a 
lantern. 

Diane  stirred. 

"  Diane!  Diane! "  called  the  voice  of  Philip. 

At  the  memory  of  Philip  and  Arcadia,  Diane 
choked  and  lay  very  still. 

"Diane!"  The  lantern  shone  now  in  her  face 
and  Philip  was  kneeling  beside  her,  his  face  whiter 
than  her  own. 

"  Great  God ! "  said  Philip  and  stared  into  her 
haunted  eyes  with  infinite  compassion. 

But  Philip,  as  he  frequently  said,  was  pre 
eminently  a  "  practician,"  wherefore  he  gently 


870        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

covered  the  girl  with  his  coat,  busied  himself  with 
the  lantern  and,  for  various  reasons,  sought  to 
create  a  general  atmosphere  of  commonplace 
reality. 

"Your  aunt  sent  me,"  he  said  at  length. 
"  She's  awfully  upset." 

"She  told  you?" 

"Yes." 

" Of —of  the  Indian  mother?" 

"  I  knew,"  said  Philip.  "Carl  told  me.  I  with 
held  it  this  morning  purposely.  Why  fuss  about 
it,  Diane?  Lord  Almighty!"  added  this  exceed 
ingly  practical  and  democratic  young  man,  "  I 
shouldn't  worry  myself  if  my  grandfather  was  a 
salamander!  .  .  .  And,  besides,  your  true 
Indian  is  an  awfully  good  sport.  He's  proud 
and  fearless  and  inherently  truthful  — " 

"  I  know,"  said  Diane.  "  It  isn't  that  I  mind  — 
so  much.  It  —  it's  the  other." 

"Of  course!"  said  Philip  gently,  "but,  some 
how,  I  can't  believe  it's  true,  Diane.  There's 
logic  against  it.  Why,  Great  Scott! "  he  added 
cheerfully,  for  all  there  was  a  lump  in  his  throat 
at  the  wistful  tragedy  in  the  girl's  eyes,  "  there's 
Theodomir's  own  statement  in  the  candlestick  — 
have  you  forgotten?" 

"  It  spoke  of — of  marriage?" 

"It  said  that  Theodomir  had  gone  into  the 
Glades  hunting  and  had  come  upon  the  Indian  vil- 


In  the  Forest  371 

lage.  There  he  met  and  married  your  mother  and 
later  divorced  her." 

:<  If  I  could  only  be  sure!"  faltered  Diane. 

'  You  can,"  said  Philip,  "  for  I  am  going  back 
to  the  Glades  to-morrow  to  hunt  this  thing  to 
earth.  The  old  chief  will  know." 

"But  the  trail,  Philip?" 

'  There  are  ways  of  finding  it,"  said  Philip  re 
assuringly. 

He  was  so  cool  and  matter-of-fact,  so  entirely 
cheerful  and  resourceful,  that  Diane  found  his 
comfortable  air  of  confidence  contagious.  Only 
for  a  time,  however.  A  little  later  she  glanced 
mutely  into  his  face,  met  his  eyes,  flushed  scarlet 
and  fell  to  shaking  again. 

"Philip!"  she  whispered. 

'Yes?"  There  was  a  wonderful  gentleness  in 
Philip's  voice. 

"I  —  I  can't  go  back  to  camp  yet,  for  all  it's 
raining." 

"Well,"  said  Philip  comfortably,  "rain  be 
hanged.  We'll  wait  a  bit." 

Diane  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  and  lay  very  quiet. 

Philip  wisely  said  nothing.  He  shifted  the 
lantern  so  his  own  face  might  be  in  the  shadow 
and  for  some  reason  of  his  own,  fell  to  speaking 
of  Carl.  He  told  of  Mic-co,  of  the  quiet  hours 
of  healing  by  the  pool,  of  another  night  of  storm 


872        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

and  stress  when  Carl  had  gone  forth  into  the 
wilds  with  the  Indian  girl. 

For  the  first  time  now  he  felt  that  he  had 
pierced  the  girl's  shell  of  tragic  introspection  and 
caught  her  interest.  Though  the  rain  came  faster 
and  the  lantern  flickered,  Philip  went  on  with  his 
quiet  story. 

He  spoke  of  the  forces  that  had  fired  Carl  to 
drunken  resentment,  the  defection  of  his  com 
rades,  his  conviction  of  injustice  in  the  appor 
tionment  of  the  Westfall  estate,  the  climax  of  his 
sensitive  rebellion  against  Diane's  attitude  to 
ward  his  mother,  the  morose  and  morbid  loneli 
ness  which  had  driven  him  relentlessly  to  ruin. 

"  What  did  he  hope  to  gain  by  writing  to  Hou- 
dania  ? "  asked  the  girl  a  little  bitterly. 

"Money!"  said  Philip  firmly.  "He  fan 
cied  he  could  frighten  them  and  put  a  heavy  price 
upon  his  silence.  Later  when  his  letter  to  Hou- 
dania  was  ignored  he  altered  his  plans.  If  he 
could  prove  that  you  were  the  daughter  of  Theo- 
domir  and  not  of  Norman  Westfall  —  then  the 
great  estate  of  his  uncle  would  revert  to  him.  Be 
fore  he  could  act  further,  things  began  to  hap 
pen.  And  then,"  added  Philip  thoughtfully, 
"  comes  another  dark  patch  in  the  mystery.  Carl's 
story  must  have  crossed  wires  with  something 
else  —  something  that  frightened  them  and  made 
his  death  imperative.  The  hysterical  desperation 


In  the  Forest  373 

of  these  men  was  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
cause.  Baron  Tregar,  baffling  as  he  is  at  times,  is 
not  the  man  to  lend  himself  to  deliberate  assas 
sination  merely  to  keep  the  succession  of  Rona- 
dor's  son  free  from  incumbrances.  Later  still, 
Carl  planned  to  sell  the  secret  to  the  rival  prov 
ince  of  Galituria,  but  the  net  closed  in  so  rapidly 
and  he  fell  to  drinking  so  heavily,  that  brain  and 
body  revolted  and  the  first  shadow  of  insanity 
whispered  another  way  - 

"To  murder  me!"  flashed  the  girl.  For  the 
first  time  there  was  warmth  and  color  in  her  face. 

Philip  was  glad.  He  had  struck  fire  from  her 
stony  calm  at  last. 

'  Yes,"  he  said,  and  catching  her  chilled 
hands,  compelled  the  glance  of  her  wistful  eyes. 
"Diane,"  he  said  deliberately,  "let  us  withhold 
our  censure.  Carl  has  a  curious  and  tragic 
psychology  and  he  has  paid  in  full.  Thanks  to  a 
habit  of  wonderful  alertness  and  ingenuity,  he 
has  made  his  enemies  respect  and  fear  him.  But 
the  tangle  aroused  the  blackest  instincts  of  his 
soul." 

But  the  girl  was  very  bitter.  The  old  im 
patience  and  intolerance  flashed  suddenly  in  her 
face. 

Philip  fell  silent  for  an  instant.  Then  he  shot 
his  final  barb  with  deliberate  intention — not  so 
much  to  reproach  —  though  there  was  utter  hon- 


874        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

esty  and  loyalty  to  Carl  in  what  he  said  —  but 
more  to  touch  the  girl's  tragedy  with  something 
sharp  enough  to  pierce  her  morbidness. 

"  Carl  blames  no  one  but  himself,"  he  said 
gently.  "But — but  if  you  had  been  a  little 
kinder,  Diane  — 

"Philip!"    He  had  hurt  and  knew  it. 

"Yes,  I  know!"  said  Philip  quickly,  "but 
you're  not  going  to  misunderstand,  I'm  sure.  Let 
me  say  it  with  all  gentleness  and  without  reproach. 
If  you  could  have  forgotten  his  mother's  history 
and  made  him  feel  that  he  was  not  quite  alone — 
that  there  was  some  one  to  whom  his  careless 
whims  made  a  difference!  But  you  were  a  little 
scornful  and  indifferent.  I  wonder  if  you'll  be 
lieve  that  he  can  tell  you  each  separate  moment 
in  his  life  when  you  were  kind  to  him." 

"I  too  was  alone  and  lonely!"  defended  the 
girl.  "  And  the  call  of  the  forest  had  made  me 
most  unhappy." 

'  Yes.  But  Carl  was  not  mocking  any  sensitive 
spot  in  your  life — " 

"  No — I  was  cruel — cruel ! " 

"I  remember  in  college,"  said  Philip,  "he 
talked  so  much  of  his  beautiful  cousin,  and  the 
rest  of  us  were  wild  to  see  her.  We  used  to  rag 
him  a  lot,  but  you  held  aloof  and  we  told  him  we 
didn't  believe  he  had  a  cousin.  We  discovered 
after  a  while  that  he  was  sensitive  because  you 


In  the  Forest  375 

didn't  come  when  he  asked  you,  and  we  quit  rag 
ging  him  about  it.  You  didn't  even  come  when 
he  took  his  degree." 

"No.    I  — Oh,  Philip!    I  am  sorry." 

'  Your  aunt,"  went  on  Philip,  "was  not  men 
tally  adapted  to  inspire  his  respect.  He  merely] 
laughed  and  petted  her  into  tearful  subjection. 
You  were  the  only  one,  Diane,  who  was  his  equal 
in  body  and  brain,  and  you  failed  him  at  a  period 
when  your  influence  would  have  been  tremendous. 
I  can't  forget,"  added  Philip  soberly,  "  that  much 
of  this  I  knew  in  college  and  carelessly  enough  I 
ignored  it  all  later.  I  let  him  drift  when  I  might 
have  done  much  to  help  him." 

Philip's  instinct  was  right  and  kindly. 

He  had  provided  a  counter  wound  to  dwarf, 
at  saving  intervals,  the  sting  of  Aunt  Agatha's 
frightened  revelation.  Thereafter,  the  memory 
of  Philip's  loyal  rebuke  was  to  trouble  her  sorely, 
temper  a  little  the  old  intolerance  and  arouse  her 
keen  remorse.  The  consciousness  that  Philip  dis 
approved  was  quite  enough. 

With  a  sudden  gesture  of  solicitude,  Diane 
touched  the  sleeve  of  his  shirt.  It  was  very  wet. 

"  Philip ! "  she  exclaimed,  springing  to  her  feet. 
"  We  must  go  back." 

"Lord,"  said  Philip  lazily,  "that's  nothing  at 
all.  I'm  a  hydro-aviator." 

She  glanced  wistfully  up  into  his  face. 


876        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"You're  right  about  Carl,"  she  said.  "I'm 
very  sorry." 

Philip  felt  suddenly  that  it  behooved  him  to  re 
member  a  certain  resolution. 

Later,  as  he  hurried  through  the  rainy  wood  to 
his  own  camp,  where  the  Baron  sat  huddled  in  the 
Indian  wagon  in  a  state  of  deep  disgust  about  the 
rain,  he  halted  where  the  trees  were  thick  and 
lighted  his  pipe. 

'  There's  the  Baron's  aeroplane  at  St.  Augus 
tine,"  he  said.  "We  can  go  there  in  the  morn 
ing.  And  the  old  chief  will  know.  His  memory's 
good  for  half  a  century."  Philip  flung  away  his 
match.  "  But  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see  which 
is  the  lesser  of  the  two  evils.  If  her  mother 
.wasn't  married,  it  was  bad  enough,  of  course. 
But  with  Theodomir  a  crown  prince — it's  worse 
if  she  was  I" 

And  a  little  later  with  a  sigh — 

"A  princess!  God  bless  my  soul,  with  my 
spread-eagle  tastes  I  shouldn't  know  in  the  least 
what  to  do  with  her! " 

Huddled  in  the  Indiaa  wagon,  the  Baron  and 
his  secretary  talked  until  daybreak. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

"  THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN  " 

FOR  the  rides  over  the  sun-hot  plains,  the  pol 
ing  of  cypress  canoes,  the  days  of  hunting 
and  the  tanning  of  hides,  there  was  now  a  third 
of  fearless  strength  and  endurance.  Keela  had 
come  with  the  Mulberry  Moon  to  the  home  of  her 
foster  father,  a  presence  of  delicate  gravity  and 
shyness  which  pervaded  the  lodge  like  the  breath 
of  some  vivid  wild  flower. 

"  Red- winged  Blackbird,"  said  Carl,  one  morn 
ing,  laying  aside  the  flute  which  had  been  shower 
ing  tranquil  melody  through  the  quiet  beneath 
the  moss-hung  oaks,  "why  are  you  so  quiet?" 

"  I  am  ever  quiet,"  said  Red- winged  Blackbird 
with  dignity.  "  Mic-co  says  it  is  better  so." 

"Why?" 

"  Mic-co  only  understands,  and  even  to  him  I 
may  not  always  talk."  She  went  sedately  on 
with  the  modeling  of  clay,  her  slender  hands 
swift,  graceful,  unfaltering.  Mic-co's  lodge 
abounded  in  evidences  of  their  deftness. 

'  You  have  more  grace,"  said  Carl  suddenly, 
"  than  any  woman  I  have  ever  known." 

"Diane!"  said  Keela  with  charming  and  im 
partial  acquiescence. 

377 


878        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"Yes,  Diane  has  it,  too,"  assented  Carl,  and 
fell  thoughtful,  watching  Mic-co's  snowy  herons 
flap  tamely  about  the  lodge. 

"Play!"  said  Keela  shyly. 

Carl  drew  the  flute  from  his  pocket  again  and 
obeyed. 

"Like  a  brook  of  silver!"  said  the  Indian  girl 
with  an  abashed  revealment  of  the  wild  sylvan 
poetry  with  which  her  thoughts  were  rife. 

"  The  one  friend,"  said  Carl,  "  to  whom  I  have 
told  all  things.  The  one  friend,  Red-winged 
Blackbird,  who  always  understood!" 

"I,"  said  Keela  with  majesty,  "I  too  am  your 
friend  and  I  understand." 

Carl  reddened  a  little. 

"What  do  you  understand,  little  Indian 
lady?"  he  asked  quietly. 

He  was  totally  unprepared  for  the  keenness 
of  her  unsmiling  analysis. 

"  That  you  have  been  very  tired  in  the  head," 
she  nodded,  her  delicate,  vivid  face  quite  grave. 
"  So  tired  that  you  might  not  see  as  you  should, 
so  tired  that  the  medicine  of  white  men  could  not 
reach  it,  but  only  the  words  of  Mic-co,  who 
knows  all  things.  So  tired  that  a  moon  was  not 
a  moon  of  lovely  brightness.  It  was  a  thing  of 
evil  fire  to  scorch.  Uncah?  Mic-co  would  say 
warped  vision.  I  must  talk  in  simpler  ways  for 
all  I  study." 


1  The  Marshes  of  Glynn"       379 

They  fell  quiet. 

"  Read  me  again  that  live  oak  poem  of  Lan« 
ier's,"  said  Carl.  "After  a  while  Mic-co  will  be 
back  to  spirit  you  away  to  his  Room  of  Books." 

She  read,  as  she  frequently  read  to  Carl  and 
Mic-co  in  the  long  quiet  afternoons,  with  an  ac 
cent  musical  and  soft,  of  the  immortal  marshes 
of  Glynn. 

"  Glooms  of  the  live  oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven 
With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that  myriad-cloven 
Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs, — 

What  vivid  memories  it  awoke  of  the  morning 
the  swamp  had  revealed  to  him  the  island  home 
of  Mic-co! 

"  Ay,  now,  when  my  soul  all  day  hath  drunken  the  soul 

of  the  oak, 
And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and  the  wearisome 

sound  of  the  stroke 

Of  the  scythe  of  time  and  the  trowel  of  trade  is  low, 
And  belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know  that  I  know, 
And  my  spirit  is  grown  to  a  lordly  great  compass 

within, 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 

marshes  of  Glynn 
Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they  have  wrought 

me  of  yore 


880        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

When  length  was  fatigue,  and  when  breadth  was  but 

bitterness  sore, 
And  when  terror  and  shrinking  and  dreary  unnameable 

pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  miles  of  the  plain." 

Lanier,  dying  of  heartbreak !  How  well  he  had 
understood! 

"  Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal  sea  ? 
Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  Fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of 

sin, 
By  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 

marshes  of  Glynn." 

And  Keela  too  had  guessed. 

"  In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow, 
Farewell  —  " 

Keela  broke  off  and  laid  aside  the  book. 

"  I  may  not  read  more,'*  she  said,  bending  to 
the  pottery  with  wild  color  in  her  face.  "I  —  I 
am  very  tired,  Carl.  You  go  in  the  morning ? " 

"Yes." 

'  You  are  strong — and  sure?" 

'Yes.  Quite.  I've  promised  Mic-co  not  to 
lose  my  grip  again." 

"  And  sometime  you  will  come  here  again  ?  " 


4  The  Marshes  of  GlymT        381 

"Often!" 

A  little  later  she  went  quietly  away  to  the 
Room  of  Books  with  Mic-co. 

When  the  evening  star  flashed  silver  in  the 
lilied  pool,  Carl  sat  alone.  Mic-co  had  been  sum 
moned  away  by  an  Indian  servant.  A  soft  light 
gleamed  in  the  corner  of  the  court  in  a  shower  of 
vines.  Its  light  was  a  little  like  the  soft  rays  of 
the  Venetian  lamp  that  had  shone  in  the  Sherrill 
garden,  but  Carl  ruthlessly  put  the  memory  aside. 
It  had  grown  once  into  a  devouring  flame  of  evil 
portent.  It  must  not  do  so  again. 

His  thoughts  were  so  far  away  that  a  soft  foot 
fall  behind  him  and  the  rustle  of  satin  seemed  part 
of  that  other  night  until  turning  restlessly,  he 
caught  the  sheen  of  satin,  brightly  gold  in  the 
lantern-glow.  The  dark,  vivid  skin,  the  hair  and 
eyes  that  were  somehow  more  Spanish  than 
Indian  —  the  golden  mask — Carl's  face  went 
wildly  scarlet. 

"Keela!"  he  cried,  springing  toward  her, 
"Keela!" 

There  was  much  of  his  old  intolerance,  much 
of  his  impudent  immunity  to  the  world's  opinion 
in  the  curious  flash  of  adjustment  which  leveled 
barriers  of  caste  and  convention  and  bridged,  for 
him,  in  the  fashion  of  a  willful  uncle,  the  gulf 
of  race  and  breeding. 

The  golden  mask  dropped. 


882        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  Is  it  not  a  pretty  farewell  ? "  she  faltered,  with 
a  wistful  glance  at  the  shimmering  gown. 
"  Diane  gave  it  all.  As  you  saw  me  first,  so  — 
now!" 

Some  lines  of  Lanier's  poem  of  the  morning 
were  ringing  wildly  in  Carl's  ears. 

"  The  blades  of  the  marsh  grass  stir; 
Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  westward  whir; 
Passeth,  and  all  is  still ;  and  the  currents  cease  to  run ; 

And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one." 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so? "  asked  Keela. 

"I  have  been  a  fool,"  said  Carl  steadily,  "a 
very  great  fool  —  and  blind." 

Keela's  lovely,  sensitive  mouth  quivered. 

"Is  it—  "  she  raised  glistening,  glorified  eyes 
to  his  troubled  face, "  is  it,"  she  whispered  naively, 
"  that  you  care  like  the  lovers  in  Mic-co's  books? " 

"Yes.    And  you,  Keela?" 

"I  —  I  have  always  cared,"  she  said  shyly, 
"  since  that  night  at  Sherrill's.  I  —  I  feared  you 
knew." 

Trembling  violently  the  girl  dropped  to  her 
knees  with  a  soft  crash  of  satin  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands.  She  was  crying  wildly. 

Carl  gently  raised  her  to  her  feet  again  and 
squarely  met  her  eyes. 

"Red-winged    Blackbird,"    he    said    quietly, 


"The  Marshes  of  Glynn'        383 

"there  is  much  that  I  must  tell  you  before  I 
may  honorably  face  this  love  of  yours  and 
mine  —  " 

Keela's  black  eyes  blazed  in  sudden  loyalty. 

"  There  is  nothing  I  do  not  know,"  she  flung 
back  proudly.  "  Philip  told  me.  And  for  every 
wild  error  you  made,  he  gave  a  reason.  He  loves 
and  trusts  you  utterly.  May  I  not  do  that  too? " 

"He  told  you!" 

"  Some  that  night  in  the  storm  when  he  and  I 
were  saddling  the  horses  to  ride  to  Mic-co's. 
Some  later.  He  pledged  me  to  kindness  and 
understanding." 

For  every  break  in  the  thread  there  had  always 
been  Philip's  strong  and  kindly  hand  to  mend  it. 
A  little  shaken  by  the  memory  of  the  night  in 
Philip's  wigwam,  Carl  walked  restlessly  about 
the  court. 

"  But  there  is  more,"  he  said,  coloring.  ;*  There 
was  passion  and  dishonor  in  my  heart,  Keela, 
until,  one  night,  I  fought  and  won  —  " 

"  Is  it  not  enough  for  me  that  you  won  ? "  asked 
Keela  gently  and  broke  off,  wild  color  staining 
her  cheeks  and  forehead. 

Mic-co  stood  in  the  doorway. 

" Mic-co,"  she  said  bravely,  "I  —  I  would  have 
you  tell  him  that  he  is  strong  and  brave  and  clean 
enough  to  love.  He — he  does  not  know  it." 

She  fled  with  a  sob. 


884        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  Have  you  forgotten? "  asked  Mic-co  slowly. 

"I  care  nothing  for  race!"  cried  Carl  with  a 
flash  of  his  fine  eyes.  "  Must  I  pattern  my  life 
by  the  set  tenets  of  race  bigotry.  I  have  known 
too  many  women  with  white  faces  and  scarlet 
souls." 

"  If  I  know  you  at  all,"  said  Mic-co  with  a  quiet 
smile,  "there  will  be  no  pattern,  save  of  your 
own  making." 

"  I  come  of  a  family  who  rebel  at  patterns," 
said  Carl.  "  My  mother — my  uncle — my  cousin. 
Let  me  tell  you  all,"  and  he  told  of  the  night  in 
the  Sherrill  garden;  of  the  brutal  desire  that  had 
later  come  with  the  brooding  and  the  wild  dis 
orders  of  his  brain,  to  drive  him  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  black  abyss  until  he  fought  and  won  by 
the  camp  fire ;  of  his  consequent  panic-stricken  re 
bound  of  horror  and  remorse  when  he  had  put  it 
all  aside,  fighting  the  call  with  reason,  seeking 
desperately  to  crush  it  out  of  his  life,  until  the 
sight  of  Keela  in  the  satin  gown  had  sent  him 
back  with  a  shock  to  that  finer,  cleaner,  quieter 
call  that  had  come  in  the  Sherrill  garden.  Then 
the  disordered  interval  between  had  fled  to  the 
limbo  of  forgotten  things. 

Mic-co  heard  his  story  to  the  end  without  com 
ment.  He  was  silent  so  long  that  Carl  grew 
uncomfortable. 

"  Since  Keela  was  a  little,  wistful,  black-eyed 


'  The  Marshes  of  Glynn"       385 

child,"  said  Mic-co  at  last,  "I  have  been  her 
teacher.  We  have  worked  very  hard  together. 
Peace  came  to  me  through  her."  He  broke  off 
frowning  and  spoke  of  the  alarming  mine  of  in 
herited  instincts  from  the  white  father  which  his 
teaching  had  awakened.  Keela  had  been  restless 
and  unhappy,  fastidiously  aloof  with  the 
Seminoles,  shy  and  reticent  with  white  men.  He 
must  not  make  another  mistake,  he  said,  for  Keela 
was  very  dear  to  him. 

"The  white  father?"  asked  Carl  curiously. 

"An  artist." 

"  She  has  a  marvelous  gift  in  modeling,"  said 
Carl.  "  I  know  a  famous  young  sculptor  whose 
work  is  nothing  like  so  virile.  Might  not  some 
thing  utterly  new  and  barbaric  come  of  it  with 
proper  direction  ?  If  she  could  interpret  this  wild 
life  of  the  Glades  from  an  Indian  viewpoint  — 

"  I  have  frequently  thought  of  it,"  agreed 
Mic-co.  '  You  would  help  her,  Carl  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  It  would  give  a  definite  and  unselfish  direc 
tion  to  your  own  life,  would  it  not,  like  those 
weeks  at  the  farm  with  Wherry?" 

'  Yes.    You  trust  me,  Mic-co  ? " 

"Utterly." 

Carl  held  out  his  hand. 

"One  by  one,"  said  Mic-co,  "fate  is  slipping 


386        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

into  the  groove  of  your  life  people  who  are  des 
tined  to  care  greatly — 

"You  mean—" 

"  It  shall  be  Keela's  to  decide." 

"Mic-co,  I-  cannot  thank  you.  You  and 
Philip  - 

But  he  could  not  go  on. 

A  little  later  he  went  to  bed  and  lay  restless 
until  morning.  He  was  up  again  at  sunrise, 
tramping  over  the  island  paths  with  Mic-co. 

The  quiet  of  the  early  morning  was  rife  with 
the  chirp  of  countless  birds,  with  the  crackle  of 
the  camp  fire  where  the  turbaned  Indians  in 
Mic-co's  service  were  preparing  the  morning 
meal.  There  was  young  corn  on  the  fertile  island 
to  the  east.  Over  the  chain  of  islands  lay  the 
promise  of  early  summer. 

There  was  a  curious  drone  overhead  as  they 
neared  the  lake. 

"Look! "exclaimed  Carl.  "A  singular  sight, 
Mic-co,  for  these  island  wilds  of  yours." 

An  aeroplane  was  whirring  noisily  above  the 
quiet  lake,  startling  the  bluebills  floating  about 
on  the  surface. 

"A  singular  sight!"  nodded  Mic-co,  "and  a 
prophetic  one.  Symbolic  of  the  spirit  of  prog 
ress  which  hangs  now  above  the  Glades,  is  it  not  ? 
The  world  is  destined  to  reap  much  one  day  from 


'The  Marshes  of  Glynn"       387 

the  exuberant  fertility  of  this  marshland  of  the 
South." 

The  aeroplane  glided  gracefully  to  the  bosom 
of  the  lake,  alighted  like  a  great  bird  and  came  to 
shore  with  its  own  power. 

The  aviator  swept  off  his  cap  and  smiled. 

It  was  Philip. 


CHAPTER  XL VIII 

ON  THE  LAKE  SHOBE 

WITH  the  departure  of  Philip  and  the 
Baron  for  St.  Augustine,  a  fever  of  en 
ergy  had  settled  over  Diane.  Riding,  rowing, 
swimming,  tramping  miles  of  Florida  road,  tak 
ing  upon  herself  much  of  Johnny's  camp  labor, 
she  ruthlessly  tired  herself  out  by  day  that  she 
might  soundly  sleep  by  night.  Youth  and  health 
and  Spartan  courage  were  a  wholesome  trio. 

Aunt  Agatha  watched,  sniffed  and  frequently 
groaned. 

How  much  the  kindly  ruse  of  Philip  had 
helped,  Diane  herself  could  not  suspect,  but  her 
remorseful  thoughts  were  frequently  busy  with 
memories  of  the  old  childhood  days  with  Carl. 
He  had  been  an  excellent  horseman,  a  sturdy 
swimmer,  an  unerring  shot,  compelling  respect 
in  those  old,  wild  vacation  days  on  the  Florida 
plantation.  If  the  cruelty  had  crept  into  her 
manner  at  an  age  when  she  could  not  know,  it  had 
been  a  reflex  of  the  attitude  of  the  stern  old 
planter  whose  son  and  daughter  had  been  so  con 
spicuously  erratic. 

Gently  enough,  too,  the  girl  sought  to  make 
Aunt  Agatha  comprehend  the  curious  facts  that 

988 


On  the  Lake  Shore  389 

had  come  to  light  that  morning  beneath  the  trees. 
Quite  in  vain.  That  good  lady  refused  flatly  to 
absorb  it,  grew  ludicrously  plaintive  and  ag 
grieved  and  flew  off  at  tearful  tangents  into 
complicated  segments  of  family  history  from 
which  it  was  possible  to  extricate  only  the  most 
ridiculous  of  facts,  chief  among  them  the  reit 
erated  assurance  that  her  own  father  had  been, 
in  the  bosom  of  his  family,  of  a  delightfully 
sportive  nature,  but  nothing  like  the  Westf  alls  — 
dear  no !  —  that  he  had  a  genteel  figure,  my  dear, 
for  all  he  had  developed  a  somewhat  corpulent 
tendency  in  later  years ;  that  the  corn-beef  which 
mother  procured  was  highly  superior  to  those 
portions  of  salted  quadruped  which  Johnny  ob 
tained  in  the  village  —  and  facts  of  similar  irrele 
vancy. 

Diane  had  heard  of  the  corn-beef  and  father's 
corpulency  before,  but  she  was  now  somewhat 
gentler  and  less  impatient  and  checked  the  old 
careless  flashes  of  annoyance.  And,  having  sup 
plemented  the  hand  bag  by  a  shopping  trip  to 
the  nearest  village,  Aunt  Agatha,  to  the  girl's 
dismay,  announced  one  day: 

"  It's  my  duty  to  stay,  Diane,  and  stay  I  will. 
Mother  would  have  stayed,  I'm  sure,  and  mother's 
judgment  was  usually  correct,  though  she  would 
wear  smoked  glasses." 

Rowing  in  one  morning  with  a  string  of  fish, 


390        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Diane  was  a  little  fluttered  at  the  sight  of  a  tall, 
broad-shouldered  young  man  upon  the  shore,  who 
waved  his  hat  and  quietly  waited  for  her  boat  to 
come  in.  His  dark  skin  was  clear  and  ruddy  and 
very  brown,  his  mouth  resolute,  the  careless  grace 
and  impudence  of  his  old  manner  replaced  by 
something  steadier,  quieter  and  possibly  a  shade 
less  assured. 

The  meeting  was  by  no  means  easy  for  either, 
and  with  remorseful  memories  leaping  wildly  in 
the  heart  of  each,  they  smiled  and  called  cheer 
fully  to  one  another  until  the  girl's  boat  glided 
in  under  the  ready  assistance  of  a  masculine  hand 
that  shook  a  little. 

"  Let  me  moor  it  for  you ! "  said  Carl  and  busied 
himself  with  the  rope  for  longer  than  the  care 
less  task  would  seem  to  warrant.  When  at  length 
he  straightened  up  again  and  briskly  brushed  the 
sand  from  his  coat  sleeve  to  cover  his  emotion,  he 
forced  himself  to  meet  his  cousin's  troubled  glance 
directly. 

Instantly  the  careless  byplay  ceased.  The  des 
perate  imploring  in  the  eyes  of  each  keyed  the 
situation  to  electric  tensity.  Curiously  enough, 
both  were  thinking  of  Philip.  Curiously 
enough,  in  this  hour  of  reckoning  Philip  was  an 
invisible  arbiter  urging  them  to  generous  under 
standing. 

Diane  was  the  first  to  speak.    And,  in  the  fash- 


On  the  Lake  Shore  391 

ion  of  Diane  since  childhood,  she  bravely  plunged 
into  the  heart  of  the  thing  with  glistening  eyes. 

"  Carl,"  she  said,  "  I  am  very  sorry." 

It  was  heartfelt  apology  for  the  old  offense. 

Carl's  face  went  wildly  scarlet.  The  girl's 
gentleness,  prepared  as  he  was  for  the  inevitable 
flash  of  fire,  had  caught  him  unawares.  Spring 
ing  forward,  he  caught  her  hands  roughly  in  his 
own. 

" Don't! "  he  said  roughly.  " For  God's  sake, 
Diane,  don't!  It's  awfully  decent  of  you  —  but 
—  but  I  can't  stand  it!  Have  you  forgotten  —  " 
he  choked.  "  Surely,"  he  said,  "  Philip  told  you 
all.  He  promised  —  " 

'  Yes,"  said  Diane,  "  and — and  that's  why  —  " 
She  was  very  close  to  tears  now,  but  with  the  old 
imperiousness,  with  the  Spartan  pride  of  the 
Westfall  training  behind  her,  she  flung  back  her 
head  with  a  quick  dry  sob,  her  eyes  imploring. 

"Let's  both  forget,"  she  said.  "Oh,  Carl,  I 
was  cruel,  cruel!  I  —  I  can  not  see  now  what 
made  me  so.  Philip  is  right.  He  is  always  just 
and  honorable.  He  blames  himself  and  me. 
You'll  forgive  me?" 

ffl  forgive!"  faltered  Carl. 

:<  There  were  forces  driving  you,"  said  Diane 
steadily,  "but  I — was  deliberate.  Let's  pledge 
to  a  new  beginning.  Let  me  be  your  friend  as 
Philip  is." 


892        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Their  hands  tightened  in  a  clasp  whose  warmth 
was  prophetic. 

Mic-co's  words  rang  again  in  Carl's  ears. 

"  Fate  is  slipping  into  the  groove  of  your  life 
people  who  are  destined  to  care  greatly  1" 

Diane  was  another! 

Deeply  moved,  Carl  glanced  away  over  the 
sunlit  water,  rippling  and  sparkling  with  myriad 
shafts  of  light. 

"  Let's  sit  here  on  the  bank  a  minute,"  he  said. 
'  There's  something  I  must  tell  you.  It's  all 
right,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  interpreting  her 
glance  aright,  "I  made  my  peace  with  Aunt 
Agatha  before  you  came  in.  She  burst  into  tears 
at  the  sight  of  me  and  retired  to  her  tent.  I 
can't  make  put  just  why,  but  I  think  she  said 
it  was  either  because  I'm  so  tanned  and  a  little 
thinner,  or  because  none  of  her  family  were  ever 
addicted  to  disappearing,  or  because  she  has  an 
uncle  who's  a  bishop.  I  came  from  Philip." 

"Philip!" 

*  Yes.  He  came  to  Mic-co's  the  morning  I  was 
leaving.  Later  we  met  again  at  a  village  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  Glades.  He  waited  for  me. 
There  was  a  telegram  there  from  the  Baron. 
Philip  said  he  knew  you'd  forgive  him  if  he  sent 
his  message  on  by  me — his  father  is  very  ill." 

"Poor  Philip!"  exclaimed  the  girl.  In  the 
fullness  of  her  swift  compassion  she  forgot  why 


On  the  Lake  Shore  393 

Philip  had  gone  back  to  the  Indian  village.  It 
flooded  back  directly  and  her  wistful  eyes 
implored. 

"  It  was  a  jealous  lie,"  said  Carl  gently.  l<  The 
old  chief  knew.  The  Indian  who  told  it  hated 
your  father." 

Diane  sat  so  white  and  still  that  Carl  touched 
her  diffidently  upon  the  arm. 

"Don't  look  so!"  he  pleaded.  "There  was 
some  difficulty  at  first,  for  Philip's  Seminole  is 
nearly  as  fragmentary  as  the  old  chief's  English, 
but  they  called  in  Sho-caw  and  after  a  host  of 
blunders  and  misunderstandings,  Philip  ran  the 
thing  to  earth  at  last.  Theodomir  married  and 
divorced  your  mother  in  the  Indian  village  just  as 
the  paper  in  the  candlestick  said." 

Still  the  girl  did  not  speak  or  move  and  Carl 
saw  with  compassion  that  the  veins  of  her  throat 
were  throbbing  wildly.  He  fell  quietly  to  talking 
of  Keela,  caught  her  interest  and  watched  with  a 
sense  of  relief  the  rich  color  flood  back  to  his 
cousin's  lips  and  cheeks. 

It  was  plain  the  tale  of  the  golden  mask  had 
startled  her  a  little,  for  she  laid  her  hand  im 
petuously  upon  his  arm,  and  her  eyes  searched 
his  face  with  troubled  intentness. 

"  It  will  all  be  very  singular  and  daring,"  she 
faltered  after  a  while.  "  I  had  thought  of  some 
thing  like  it  myself — to  help  her,  I  mean.  You 


394        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

are  so  —  different,  Carl!  I  know  of  no  man  who 
might  dare  so  much  and  win."  Then  with  un 
conscious  tribute  to  one  whose  opinion  she  valued 
above  all  others,  she  added :  "  Philip  trusts  you 
utterly.  He  has  said  so.  And  Philip  knows ! " 

Carl  glanced  furtively  at  her  face  and  cleared 
his  throat. 

"Diane,"  he  asked  gravely,  "I  wonder  how 
much  that  incredible  tale  of  the  old  candlestick 
pleased  you?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Diane  honestly.  "  I  wish 
I  did.  I've  wondered  and  wondered.  No  matter 
how  hard  I  think,  it  doesn't  somehow  come  right. 
It's  like  shattering  a  cherished  crystal  into  frag 
ments  to  think  that  every  tie  of  blood  and  country 
I  valued  is  meaningless  —  that  every  memory  is  a 
mockery — that  grandfather  and  you  and  Aunt 
Agatha—  "  she  paused  and  sighed.  "When  I  try 
to  realize,"  she  finished,  "  I  feel  very  lonely  and 
afraid." 

"And  Philip?"  hinted  Carl. 

"  I  don't  think  he  is  pleased." 
'  You're  right,"  said  Carl  with  decision.    "  It 
upset  him  a  lot.    But  that  night  by  the  old  chief's 
camp  fire,  Philip  discovered — 

"Yes?" 

'  That  some  imperfection  in  the  stilted  word 
ing  of  the  hidden  paper  had  led  us  all  astray. 
Philip  said  he  could  not  be  sure — there  was  so 


On  the  Lake  Shore  395 

much  fuss  and  trouble  and  misunderstanding — 
but  the  old  chief  had  nursed  Theodomir  through 
some  dreadful  illness  and  knew  it  all.  They  were 
staunch  friends.  Norman  Westf all  came  into  the 
Glades  hunting  with  a  friend.  He  persuaded 
your  mother  to  go  away  with  him,  but  they  went 
—  alone! " 

'You  mean  —  " 

"  That  they  did  not  take  a  child  away  from  the 
Indian  village  as  the  paper  in  the  candlestick 
declares  —  " 

"And  the  daughter  of  Theodomir?" 

"  Is  Keela.  They  left  her  by  the  old  chief's 
wigwam." 

Diane  stared. 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

MR.  DOBRIGAN 

CARL,  traveling  north  after  a  day  of  earnest 
discussion  in  his  cousin's  camp,  thought 
much  of  the  second  candlestick.  Since  that  night 
in  Philip's  wigwam,  it  had  haunted  him  persist 
ently.  Now  with  Diane's  permission  to  probe  its 
secret — if,  indeed,  it  had  one  like  its  charred 
companion — he  was  fretting  again,  as  he  had 
intermittently  fretted  in  the  lodge  of  Mic-co,  at 
the  train  of  circumstances  that  had  interposed 
delay. 

Train  and  taxi  were  perniciously  slow.  Carl 
found  his  patience  taxed  to  the  utmost. 

The  grandfather's  clock  was  booming  eight 
when  at  length,  after  a  gauntlet  of  garrulous 
servants,  he  pushed  back  the  great,  iron-bound 
doors  of  the  old  Spanish  room  in  his  cousin's 
house  and  entered.  The  war-beaten  slab  of 
table-wood,  the  old  lanterns,  the  Spanish  gran 
dee  above  the  mantel,  the  mended  candlestick 
and  its  unmarred  mate,  all  brought  memories  of 
another  night  when  Starrett's  glass  had  struck 
the  marble  fireplace.  Vividly,  too,  he  recalled 
how  the  firelight  had  stained  the  square-paneled 
ceiling  of  oak  overhead,  and  how  Diane  had  stood 

396 


Mr.  Dorrigan  397 

in  the  doorway.  The  room  was  the  same.  It  was 
a  little  hard,  however,  to  reconcile  the  sullen,  re 
sentful,  impudent  young  scapegrace  of  that  other 
night  with  the  man  of  to-night. 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  touch  the  second  can 
dlestick —  the  telephone  bell  rang. 

Carl  frowned  impatiently  and  answered  it. 

"Hello,"  said  he.  "Yes,  this  is  Carl  Gran- 
berry  speaking  .  .  .  Who?  .  .  .  Oh! 
Hello,  Hunch,  is  that  you? " 

It  plainly  was.  Moreover,  Mr.  Dorrigan  was 
very  nervous  and  ill  at  ease.  Carl  laughed  with 
relish. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  he  demanded.  "You're 
stuttering  like  a  kid  .  .  .  Shut  up  and  be 
gin  over  again.  .  .  .  Hello.  .  .  .  Yes. 
.  .  .  Well,  I've  been  out  of  town  since  Jan 
uary.  .  .  .  Hum!  .  .  .  Well,"  he  hinted 
dryly,  "  there  was  sufficient  time  for  an  explana 
tion  before  I  went.  ...  I  guess  you're 
right.  ...  I  went  up  to  the  farm  in  October 
with  Wherry." 

Mr.  Dorrigan  desperately  admitted  that  some 
of  the  time  between  the  escape  of  His  Nib's  and 
Carl's  departure  for  the  farm  had  been  spent  in 
panic-stricken  remorse  and  dread  —  some  in  the 
hospital  due  to  an  altercation  with  Link  Murphy, 
who  for  reasons  not  immediately  apparent 
wished  jealously  to  obliterate  his  other  eye.  He 


898        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

begged  Carl  to  give  him  an  immediate  oppor 
tunity  of  squaring  himself,  for  he  had  telephoned 
the  house  so  frequently  of  late  that  the  butler 
had  grown  insulting.  Mr.  Dorrigan  added  that 
he  hoped  Mr.  Cranberry's  wholly  justified  wrath 
had  somewhat  abated,  but  that  for  purposes  of 
initial  communication  the  telephone  had  seemed 
more  prudent. 

He  was  plainly  relieved  at  the  answer. 

Carl  glanced  at  the  tormenting  candlestick  and 
sighed.  Another  delay  1 

"All  right,"  he  said  finally  to  Hunch,  "come 
along.  I'll  give  you  twenty  minutes.  If  you're 
not  through  then,  like  as  not  I'll  stir  up  the 
grudge  again  —  " 

The  telephone  at  the  other  end  clicked  in 
stantly.  Conceivably  Hunch  was  already  on  his 
way  up  town. 

Carl  impatiently  busied  himself  with  some 
mail  upon  the  table.  It  had  followed  him  from 
the  farm  to  Palm  Beach  and  from  Palm  Beach 
to  New  York.  There  were  half  a  dozen  wild  let 
ters  of  gratitude  from  Wherry  and  a  letter  from 
the  old  doctor,  Wherry's  father,  that  brought 
a  flush  of  genuine  pleasure  to  Carl's  face. 

"Wherry,  too!"  said  he  softly.  "Of  course. 
He  stuck  that  other  night.  I've  been  too  blind 
to  see."  Drawing  his  flute  from  his  pocket,  he 
glanced  with  a  curious  smile  and  glow  at  a  row 


Mr.  Dorrigan  399 

of  notches  in  the  wood.  The  first  notch  he  had 
cut  in  the  flute  after  the  rainy  night  in  Philip's 
wigwam,  the  second  by  Mic-co's  pool,  the  third 
was  subtly  linked  with  the  marshes  of  Glynn, 
arid  a  fourth  had  been  furtively  added  in  the 
camp  of  his  cousin.  Now  with  a  glance  at  Wher 
ry's  letters,  he  was  quietly  carving  a  fifth.  Who 
may  say  what  they  portended — this  record  of 
notches  carved  upon  the  one  friend  who  had  al 
ways  understood ! 

Carl  was  to  carve  another,  of  which  he  little 
dreamed,  before  the  summer  waned ;  and  the  spur 
to  its  making  was  close  at  hand. 

The  doorbell  rang  as  he  finished,  and  dropping 
the  flute  back  into  his  pocket,  he  rang  for  some 
whiskey  and  cigars  for  the  entertainment  of 
Mr.  Dorrigan,  who  presently  appeared,  at  the 
heels  of  a  servant,  twirling  his  hat  with  a  non 
chalant  ease  much  too  elaborate  and  at  variance 
with  the  look  in  his  good  eye  to  be  genuine. 

"Lo!"  said  Hunch  uncomfortabljr. 

"  Hello ! "  said  Carl  pleasantly,  pushing  the  de 
canter  across  the  table. 

Hunch  stared  at  his  host,  fidgeted,  poured  him 
self  a  generous  drink  and  waited  suggestively. 

Carl  merely  laughed  good-humoredly  and 
lighted  a  cigar. 

"  Sorry,  Hunch,"  he  regretted,  "  but  I've 
joined  the  Lithia  League!" 


400        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"My  Gawd!"  burst  forth  Hunch  despair 
ingly,  adding  in  heartfelt  memory  of  his  host's 
enviable  steadiness  of  head,  "My  Gawd,  Carl, 
what  a  waste  o*  talents ! " 

Carl  laughed. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  invited,  "  and  get  it  off  your 
mind." 

But  Hunch's  single  eye  was  wandering  in  fas 
cinated  appraisal  over  Carl's  dark,  pleasant  face. 
Even  he,  coarse  and  brutal  in  perception  as  he 
was,  was  conscious  of  a  difference  not  wholly 
attributable  to  the  Lithia  League  and  felt  him 
self  impelled  to  some  verbal  recognition  of  his 
host's  conspicuous  well-being. 

'Ye're  on  the  level  all  right,"  he  swore  ob 
scurely.  "  Ye're  white!  Ye're  lookin'  good,  ye're 
lookin'  fine —  By  the  Lord  Harry,  Carl,  I  don't 
know  as  I  blame  yuh!" 

Unable  to  fathom  the  nature  of  the  censure 
thus  withheld,  Carl  remained  silent  and  Hunch 
fell  again  to  staring,  his  immovable  eye  ridic 
ulously  expressive  in  stony  conjunction  with  the 
other.  Whatever  he  found  in  Carl's  face  this 
time  plainly  afforded  him  intense  relief,  for  he 
seated  himself  with  a  long  breath  and  drew  a 
yellowish, paper  from  his  pocket. 

"  I  says  to  meself,"  he  explained, "  *  Hunch,  old 
sport,  ye're  in  for  it.  He'll  like  as  not  drop  yuh 
out  of  the  window  with  an  electric  wire,  feed  yuh 


Mr.  Dorrigan  401 

to  an  electric  wolf  or  make  yuh  play  hell-for-a- 
minute  chess  or  some  other  o'  them  woozy  stunts 
'at  pop  up  in  his  bean  like  mushrooms,  but  yuh 
gotta  square  yerself  with  that  paper.  Yuh  gotta 
get  up  yer  nerve  an'  hike  up  there  to  the  brown- 
stone  with  it.'  I  ask  yuh,"  he  finished  dramat 
ically,  and  evidently  laboring  under  the  momen 
tary  conviction  that  Carl,  too,  was  optically 
afflicted,  "  I  ask  yuh,  Carl,  to  cast  yer  good  lamp 
over  that  there  paper." 

Carl  opened  the  paper  and  stared. 

"Hunch,"  he  exclaimed  with  an  involuntary 
glance  at  the  mended  candlestick,  "where  in  the 
devil  did  you  get  this?" 

"  I  ask  yuh  to  remember,"  went  on  Hunch  in 
some  excitement,  "that  I  was  drunk  an'  the  old 
she-wol  —  Gr-r-r-r-r ! "  Hunch  cleared  his  heavy 
throat  in  a  panic,  with  a  rasp  like  the  stripping 
of  gears,  and  corrected  himself.  "  The  Old  One," 
he  spoke  somewhat  as  if  this  singular  title  was  a 
degree,  "  the  Old  One  put  one  over  on  me." 

"My  aunt,  I  imagine,"  said  Carl,  "has  given 
me  a  fairly  accurate  version  of  His  Nibs'  escape. 
I'll  admit  a  pardonable  anxiety  to  interview  you 
for  a  while.  As  a  matter  of  fact  there  was  a 
night  —  when  I  was  not  in  the  Lithia  League  — 
that  I  drove  down  to  look  you  up.  Tell  me,"  he 
added,  "  where  you  found  this." 

"It  was  not,  stric'ly  speakin',  found,"  said 


402        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Hunch  with  a  modest  cough.  Once  more,  over 
whelmed  afresh  by  Carl's  appearance,  he  let  his 
good  eye  go  roving. 

"Tell  it,"  said  Carl  with  what  patience  he 
could  muster,  "in  your  own  way." 

"  I  ask  yuh  to  remember,"  urged  Hunch  with 
a  firm  belief  in  the  dignity  of  this  phrase,  "  that 
I  was  still  drunk  an'  batty  in  me  thinker  when 
the  old  she-wol  —  Gr-r-r-r-r-r  —  the  Old  One 
told  me  to  dig  out.  So  I  halts  on  the  corner  to 
collect  me  wits  an'  by  'm'  by  I  sees  a  guy  wid  a 
darkish  face  an*  lips  like  Link.  He  comes  along, 
looks  up  an'  down  suspicious,  sees  the  door  ain't 
tight  shut  an'  heel-taps  it  up  the  steps.  He  opens 
the  door  an'  by'm'by  he  helps  the  Old  One  to 
a  taxi  an*  makes  out  to  walk  off — see — whiles 
she's  a  watchin'.  Later,  when  the  taxi  turns  the 
corner,  back  he  goes,  heel-taps  it  up  the  steps 
ag'in,  an'  goes  in  at  the  door  he  ain't  locked, 
though  he'd  made  out  he  had.  An'  right  there," 
said  Hunch  impressively,  "right  there  is  where 
yer  Uncle  Hunch  feels  a  real  glimmer  in  his 
bean  an'  goes  back.  Thin-lips  ain't  in  sight.  Yer 
Uncle  Hunch  softly  heel-taps  it  upstairs  an' 
finds  the  darkish  guy  adoptin*  a  paper  with  a 
fatherly  pat,  which  he  slips  in  his  coat  pocket. 
Whereupon  —  whiles  he's  lockin*  the  desk  drawer 
ag'in,  aforesaid  uncle  slips  downstairs  an'  out. 
By'm'by,  Thin-lips  trots  out  with  an  ugly  grin 


*    Mr.  Dorrigan  403 

on  his  mug — an'  Uncle  Hunch,  gettin'  soberer 
an'  soberer  by  the  minute,  trots  after  him  with 
his  good  lamp  workin'  overtime." 

Carl  glanced  at  the  paper. 

'Yes?"  he  encouraged. 

"  Well,"  said  Hunch  with  a  sheepish  grin  that 
was  rendered  somewhat  sinister  by  the  fixed  eye, 
"I  jostled  him  real  rude  in  a  crowd  an'  picked 
his  pocket.  An'  there  yuh  are ! " 

There  was  some  slight  rustle  of  greenish  paper 
in  the  handshake. 

"I'm  mighty  grateful,"  said  Carl.  "That 
paper  cost  me  a  couple  of  hours  of  laborious 
preparation.  It's  a  duplicate,  Hunch,  for  the 
purpose  of  decoy.  The  original's  in  safe  de 
posit." 


CHAPTER  L 

THE   OTHER   CANDLESTICK 

THE  closing  of  the  outer  door  betokened  the 
departure  of  Mr.  Dorrigan. 

Carl  swiftly  marked  the  second  candlestick 
where  the  shallow  receptacle  in  the  other  had  be 
gun  and  applied  the  thin,  fine  edge  of  a  crafts 
man's  saw.  When  at  length  the  candled 
branches  lay  upon  the  table,  the  light  of  the  lan 
terns  overhead  revealed,  as  he  had  hoped,  a  second 
paper. 

He  was  to  read  the  faded  sheets,  with  staring, 
incredulous  eyes,  and  learn  that  its  contents  were 
utterly  unrelated  to  the  contents  of  the  other. 

I  am  impelled  by  one  of  the  damnable  whims  which 
sway  me  at  times  to  my  own  undoing,  to  trust  to  some 
chance  discovery  that  which  under  oath  I  may  never 
deliberately  reveal  with  my  lips.  It  is  the  history  of 
certain  events  which  have  heavily  shadowed  my  life 
and  brought  me  up  with  a  tight  rein  from  a  life  of 
reckless  whim  and  adventure  to  one  of  terrible  suffering. 
I  write  this  with  a  wild  hope  that  may  never  be  gratified. 

The  first  foreshadowing  of  this  singular  cloud  came 
one  night  in  the  Adirondack  hunting  lodge  of  Norman 
Westfall,  a  young  Southerner  whose  inheritance  of  a 

404 


The  Other  Candlestick          405 

childless  uncle's  millions  had  made  him  a  conspicuous 
figure  months  before.  He  was  living  there  with  his  sis 
ter  and  both,  as  usual,  were  at  odds  with  the  grim  old 
father  down  South  who  resented  the  wild,  unconventional 
strain  that  had  come  into  his  family  through  the  blood 
of  his  wife. 

They  were  a  wild,  handsome,  reckless  pair  —  Ann 
and  Norman  Westfall  —  inseparable  companions  in 
wild  adventure  for  which  another  woman  would  have 
neither  the  endurance  nor  the  inclination. 

Ann  was  a  strong,  beautiful,  impetuous  woman  with 
rich  coloring;  deliciously  feminine  in  her  quieter 
moments,  incredibly  daring  in  others  ;  keen-brained,  cul 
tured,  and  utterly  unconventional;  generous,  sympa 
thetic  and  a  splendid  musician.  Norman  worshiped 
her.  She  was  older  than  he  and  without  the  occasional 
strain  of  flippancy  which  so  maddened  his  father. 

Norman  and  Ann  and  I  had  traversed  the  whole 
length  of  the  Mississippi  to  New  Orleans  on  a  raft  and 
had  traveled  thence  to  this  recently  inherited  Adiron 
dack  tract  of  Norman's  to  rest. 

"  Grant,"  he  said  one  night  after  Ann  had  gone  to 
bed,  "  you've  more  brains  and  brawn  and  breeding  than 
any  man  I  know,  and  you've  splendid  health." 

Naturally  enough,  I  flushed. 

Norman  narrowed  his  handsome,  impudent  eyes  and 
regarded  me  intently. 

"  And  you're  sufficiently  clear-cut  and  good-looking," 
he  said  thoughtfully,  "  for  the  purpose.  Not  so  hand- 


406        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

some  as  Ann  to  be  sure,  but  Ann's  an  exceptionally  beau 
tiful  woman." 

I  was  utterly  at  a  loss  to  understand  his  reference  to 
a  purpose  and  said  so.  He  laughed  and  shrugged  and 
enlightened  me. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said  in  answer  to  my  stam 
mered  suggestion  that  marriage  was  simpler  and  less 
fraught  with  perilous  possibilities,  "  Ann  and  I  are  not 
in  the  least  hoodwinked  by  marriage.  It  has  enervated 
the  whole  race  of  womankind  and  led  to  their  complete 
economic  dependence  upon  a  polygamous  sex  who  abuse 
the  trust.  Now  Ann  believes  firmly  in  the  holiness  of 
maternity,  but  she  flatly  refuses  to  take  upon  herself 
the  responsibility  of  an  unwelcome  tie.  In  this,  as  in 
everything,  I  cordially  endorse  her  views.  Ann  is  past 
the  callow  age.  She  has  refused  a  number  of  men  who 
were  conspicuously  her  inferiors,  though  Dad  has 
stormed  a  bit.  Now  you  are  the  one  man  whom  I  con 
sider  her  physical  and  mental  equal,  the  one  man  to 
whom  I  may  talk  in  this  manner  without  fear  of  bigoted 
misunderstanding,  but  —  while  Ann's  friendship  for  you 
is  warm  and  wholly  sincere  —  she  doesn't  love  you. 
If  she  did,"  said  my  impudent  young  friend,  "  she'd 
likely  shrug  away  her  aversion  to  marital  custom  and 
marry  you  before  you  were  well  aware  of  it.  As  it  is, 
she  declines  to  sacrifice  the  maternal  inheritance  of  her 
sex  and  she  refuses  to  marry.  And  there  you  are !  " 

Looking  back  now  after  five  years  of  readjustment 
and  metamorphosis,  I  marvel  at  the  cool  philosophy  with 


The  Other  Candlestick          407 

which  two  adventurous  young  scapegraces  settled  the 
question  of  a  little  lad's  unconventional  birth. 

I  pass  over  now  the  heartbroken  reproaches  of  Ann's 
father  when  my  son  was  born.  We  told  him  the  truth 
and  he  could  not  understand.  He  looked  through  the 
eyes  of  the  world  and  it  widened  the  gulf  forever.  There 
after  Norman  and  Ann  lived  in  the  lodge. 

Ann  was  a  wonderful  mother  and  the  boy  as  sturdy 
and  handsome  a  little  lad  as  the  mother-heart  of  any 
woman  ever  worshiped.  But  I!  How  easy  it  had 
been  to  promise  to  make  no  particular  advance  of  affec 
tion  to  my  son  —  to  suggest  in  no  way  my  claim  upon 
him  —  to  take  up  the  thread  of  my  life  again,  as  if  he 
had  never  been  born  —  to  regard  myself  merely  as  the 
physical  instrument  necessary  to  his  creation! 

I  was  to  learn  with  bitter  suffering  the  truth  that 
my  act  bound  me  irrevocably  in  soul  and  heart  to  my 
boy  and  his  mother. 

I  shall  not  forget  the  night  when  I  faced  the  truth. 
It  was  in  the  great  room  of  the  lodge,  the  blazing  wood 
fire  staining  the  bearskin  rugs.  Outside,  in  the  early 
twilight,  there  was  wind,  and  trees  hung  with  snow,  and 
the  dull,  frozen  lap  of  a  winter  lake.  I  had  come  up 
to  the  lodge  at  Norman's  invitation.  As  far  as  he  and 
Ann  were  concerned,  my  claim  upon  Ann's  boy  was 
quite  forgotten. 

He  had  grown  into  a  dark,  ruddy,  handsome  little 
lad,  this  son  of  mine,  with  a  brain  and  body  far  beyond 
his  years,  thanks  to  Ann's  marvelous  gift  of  mother 
hood,  her  care  and  her  teaching. 


408        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Ann  sat  by  the  old,  square  piano  singing  some 
marvelous  mother's  lullaby  of  the  Norseland,  her  full 
contralto  ringing  with  splendid  tenderness.  Mother 
and  son  were  alone  when  I  entered.  Carl  was  busily 
at  play  on  a  rug  by  the  fire. 

In  that  instant,  with  the  plaint  of  the  Norse  mother 
in  my  ears,  I  knew.  The  tie  was  too  strong  to  fight.  I 
loved  my  little  son  —  I  loved  his  mother. 

I  do  not  remember  how  I  stumbled  across  the  room 
and  told  her.  I  only  know  that  she  was  greatly  shocked 
and  troubled  and  very  kind,  that  she  told  me  as  gently 
as  she  could  that  I  must  try  to  conquer  it  all  —  that 
there  must  be  no  one  in  Carl's  life  but  herself  —  that 
man's  part  in  the  scheme  of  creation  was  but  the  act  of 
a  moment;  a  woman's  part,  her  whole  life. 

I  think  now  that  her  great  love  for  the  little  chap  had 
crowded  everything  else  out  of  her  mind ;  that  living  up 
there  in  those  snowy  acres  of  trees  away  from  the  world, 
she  was  so  calmly  contented  and  happy  that  she  feared 
an  intrusive  breath  of  any  sort.  And  she  did  not  love 
me. 

Suddenly  in  a  moment  of  impulsive  tenderness,  she 
bent  over  and  caught  Carl  up  in  her  arms. 

**  My  little  laddie !  "  she  cried,  her  face  glorified,  and 
he  nestled  his  head  in  her  full,  beautiful  throat  and 
laughed. 

An  instant  later  he  looked  up  and  smiled  and  held 
out  his  hand  with  a  curious  instinct  of  kindliness  he 
had,  even  as  a  very  little  fellow. 


The  Other  Candlestick          409 

"  Don't  feel  so  awful  bad,  Uncle  Grant !  "  he  said 
shyly.  "  I  love  you  too.  Don't  I,  mother?  "  I  don't 
know,  but  I  think  Ann  cried. 

I  choked  and  stumbled  from  the  room. 

So,  for  me,  ended  the  singular  episode  of  my  life  that 
has  condemned  me  again  to  the  fate  of  a  wanderer,  drift 
ing  about  like  thistledown  in  the  wind  of  fancy. 

There  is  but  one  chance  in  many  hundred  that  this 
paper,  which  bears  upon  the  back  the  address  of  solicitors 
who  will  always  know  my  whereabouts  —  sealed  and 
buried  after  a  whim  of  mine  as  it  will  be  —  will  ever  come 
to  the  eyes  of  him  for  whom  it  is  intended,  but  maddened 
by  the  thought  that  I  must  go  through  life  alone  —  and 
lonely  —  without  hinting  to  my  son  the  truth,  I  have 
desperately  begged  from  Ann  the  boon  of  the  single 
chance,  forlorn  as  it  is,  that  I  may  have  some  flickering 
hope  to  feed  upon.  And  she,  out  of  the  compassionate 
recognition  that  for  the  single  moment  of  creation  I  am 
entitled  to  this  at  least,  has  granted  it.  If  this  paper 
ever  comes  to  the  eyes  of  my  son  —  and  I  am  irrevocably 
pledged  to  drop  no  hint  of  its  whereabouts  —  then  — 
and  not  until  then  —  are  all  my  pledges  void. 

Who  knows?  In  the  years  to  come,  some  wild  freak 
of  destiny  may  guide  the  feet  of  my  son  to  the  secret  of 
the  candlestick.  I  shall  live  and  pray  and  likely  die  a 
childless,  unhappy  old  man,  whose  Fate  lies  buried  pro 
foundly  in  the  sealed,  invulnerable  heart  of  a  Spanish 
candlestick  —  a  stranger  to  his  son. 

Grant  Satterlee. 


410        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

It  was  the  name  of  a  wealthy  bachelor  whose 
lonely  austerity  of  life  upon  a  yacht  which  rarely 
lingered  in  any  port,  whose  quiet  acts  of  phil 
anthropy  as  he  roved  hermitlike  about  the  world, 
had  been  the  talk  of  continents. 

Reading  to  the  end,  Carl  dropped  the  scatter 
ing  sheets  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  un 
nerved  and  shaking. 


CHAPTER  LI 

IN  THE  ADIRONDACK^ 

TO  THE  wild,  out-of -the- world  hunting  lodge 
in  the  Adirondack  wilderness  of  tree  and 
lake  and  trout-haunted  mountain  stream  which 
had  been  part  of  Norman  Westfall's  heritage, 
came,  one  twilight  of  cloud  and  wind,  Diane, 
tanned  with  the  wind  and  sun  of  a  year's  wander 
ing —  and  very  tired. 

Wild  relief  at  Carl's  tale  of  the  jealous  Indian, 
thoughts  of  Philip,  of  Carl,  of  Keela,  of  Rona- 
dor,  all  these,  persistently  haunting  the  girl's 
harassed  mind,  had  wearied  her  greatly.  More 
over,  Aunt  Agatha  was  not  restful;  nor  would 
she  depart. 

Wherefore,  with  the  old  habit  when  the  voice 
of  the  forest  called — when  school  and  city  and 
travel  had  palled  and  tortured — Diane  had 
traveled  feverishly  north  with  Aunt  Agatha,  and 
thence  to  the  Adirondack  lodge  which  had  been 
her  hermitage  since  early  childhood  and  to  which, 
by  an  earlier  compact,  Aunt  Agatha  might  not 
follow. 

She  had  telegraphed  old  Roger  to  meet  her  with 
the  buckboard.  Now,  as  they  drove  up  at  twi 
light,  Annie,  his  wife,  stood  in  the  cottage  door- 

411 


412        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

way.  Beyond  among  the  rustling  trees  stood  the 
log  lodge  of  Norman  Westf all,  far  enough  away 
for  solitude  and  near  enough,  as  Aunt  Agatha 
frequently  recalled  with  comfort,  to  the  cottage 
of  the  two  old  servants  for  safety. 

The  lake  stretched  away  to  a  dusk-dimmed 
shore  set  in  a  whispering  line  of  ghostly  birches. 

"There's  wood  in  the  fireplace,  dearie!"  said 
old  Annie,  patting  the  girl's  shoulder.  "It's  a 
wee  bit  chill  yet,  for  all  the  summer  ought  well 
be  here.  And  you've  not  run  away  to  the  old 
lodge  to  cook  and  keep  house  and  play  gypsy  this 
many  a  day!" 

"  No,"  said  Diane,  "  I  haven't."  She  spoke  of 
the  van  and  Johnny. 

"Dear!  Dear!"  quavered  Annie,  raising 
wrinkled,  wondering  hands.  "  Think  of  that 
now!  And  like  you,  too!  And  you  grown  so  like 
your  father,  child,  that  I  can't  well  keep  my  eyes 
off  your  face.  And  brown  as  a  berry  from  the 
sun.  I've  set  a  bit  of  a  lunch  in  the  great  room 
yonder,  dearie.  You'll  likely  be  too  tired  to-night 
to  be  a  gypsy." 

Old  Roger,  who  had  consigned  the  buckboard 
and  horses  to  a  tall  awkward  country  lad  who  had 
slouched  forward  from  the  shadows,  hurried  off 
to  light  the  fire  in  the  lodge. 

When  Diane  entered,  the  fire  was  crackling 
cheerfully  in  the  great  fireplace  and  dancing  in 


In  the  Adirondacks  413 

bright  waves  over  the  china  and  glass  upon  a  table 
by  the  fire. 

The  old  room,  extending  the  entire  width  of 
the  lodge  and  half  its  generous  depth,  was  much 
as  it  had  been  in  the  days  of  Norman  Westfall. 
By  the  western  wall  stood  the  old  piano.  Un 
covered  rafters  and  an  inner  wall-lining  of  logs 
hinted  nothing  of  the  substantial  plaster  behind 
it.  It  was  a  great  room  of  homely  comfort,  subtly 
akin  to  the  forest  beyond  its  walls. 

It  was  the  old  fashioned  desk  in  the  corner, 
however,  upon  which  Diane's  thoughtful  gaze 
rested  as  she  ate  her  supper.  The  thought  of  it 
had  primarily  inspired  her  coming.  Surely  the 
old  desk,  locked  this  many  a  year,  might  hold 
some  breath  of  the  tragedy  that  had  ghostlike 
trailed  her  footsteps.  Ann  Westfall  had  kept  the 
key  until  her  death.  She  had  bravely  put  her 
brother's  house  in  order  at  his  tragic  death  and 
transferred  all  the  papers  of  value.  The  key  hung 
now  in  a  sliding  panel  beneath  the  ledge  of  the 
desk.  The  spirit  which  had  kept  the  old  room  un 
changed,  even  to  the  faded  books  of  Orientalism 
and  the  old  pictures  strangely  mellowed,  had  led 
to  the  hiding  of  the  key  away  from  vandal  ringers. 

Once  Diane  herself  had  unlocked  the  desk  and 
peered  timidly  within.  She  remembered  now  the 
faultless  order  of  the  few  dry,  uninteresting 
papers,  an  ink  well  made  of  the  skull  of  a  tiny 


414        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

monkey,  a  bamboo  pen,  a  half-finished  manuscript 
of  wild  adventure  in  some  out-of -the- world  spot 
in  the  South  Pacific.  There  had  been  nothing 
more.  But  the  desk  was  one  of  intricate  drawers 
and  panels. 

With  a  sudden  distaste  for  the  food  before 
her,  Diane  pushed  the  little  table  back,  lighted  a 
small  lamp  and  crossed  to  her  father's  desk.  She 
unlocked  it  with  nervous  fingers.  The  monkey 
skull,  the  bamboo  pen,  the  few  irrelevant  papers 
were  all  as  she  remembered  them. 

Diane  glanced  hurriedly  over  the  scribbled 
manuscript  of  adventure  with  a  wild,  choking 
sensation  in  her  throat.  There  was  no  mention 
of  the  Indian  wife.  Hurriedly  she  opened  each 
tiny  drawer  and  panel.  They  were  for  the  most 
part  empty.  Only  in  one,  a  small  drawer  within 
a  drawer,  lay  a  faded  packet  of  letters  directed 
to  Ann  Westfall  in  the  hand  that  had  penned  the 
manuscript  —  Norman  Westf all's. 


CHAPTER  LII 


R 


ELUCTANTLY,  Diane  opened  the  letters 
of  long  ago  and  read  them: 


Grant  and  I  have  had  wild  sport  killing  alligators 
with  the  Seminoles.  A  wild,  dark,  unexplored  country, 
Ann,  these  Florida  Everglades !  How  I  wish  you  were 
with  us  !  Tyson  had  an  Indian  guide,  evoked  somewhere 
from  the  wild  by  smoke  signals,  waiting  for  us.  We 
traversed  miles  and  miles  of  savage,  uninhabitable  marsh 
before  at  last  we  came  to  the  isolated  Indian  camp. 
Small  wonder  the  Seminole  is  still  unconquered.  It  is  a 
world  here  for  wild  men.  I'll  write  as  I  feel  inclined  and 
bunch  the  letters  when  there  is  an  Indian  going  out  to 
the  fringe  of  civilization. 

We  hunt  the  'gators  by  night  in  cypress  canoes.  Grant 
sat  in  the  bow  of  our  boat  to-night  with  a  bull's-eye 
lantern  in  his  cap.  The  fan  of  it  over  the  silent,  black 
water,  the  eyes  of  the  'gators  blazing  in  the  dark,  these 
cool,  bronze,  turbaned  devils  with  axes  to  sever  the 
spinal  cord  and  rifles  to  shatter  the  skull  —  it's  a  wild 
and  thrilling  scene. 

I'm  sorry  Carl  was  not  so  well.  Now  that  Dad  is 
kinder  to  the  little  chap,  we  could  have  left  him  at  St. 

415 


416        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

Augustine  if  he'd  been  well  enough  to  make  the  trip. 
It  bothers  nie  that  you're  not  along.  It's  my  first  time 
without  you,  and  you're  a  better  shot  than  Grant  and 
more  dependable  in  mood.  I  can't  make  out  what's 
come  over  him  of  late.  He's  so  moody  and  reckless 
that  the  Indians  think  he's  a  devil.  He's  more  prone 
to  wild  whims  than  ever.  We've  shot  wild  turkey  and 
bear  but  I  like  the  'gator  sport  the  best. 

There's  a  curious  white  man  here  who's  lived  a  good 
part  of  his  life  with  the  tribe.  He's  a  Spaniard,  a  dark- 
skinned,  bitter,  morose  sort  of  chap  —  really  a  Minor- 
can  —  whose  Indian  wife  is  dead.  He  has  a  daughter, 
a  girl  of  twenty  or  so  whom  the  Seminoles  call  Nan-ces- 
o-wee.  He  calls  her  simply  Nanca.  She  speaks  Spanish 
fluently.  The  morose  old  Spaniard  has  taught  her  a 
fund  of  curious  things.  Her  heavy  hair,  black  as  a 
storm-cloud,  falls  to  her  knees.  Grant  says  her  won 
derful  eyes  remind  him  somehow  of  midnight  water.  Her 
eyebrows  have  the  expressive  arch  of  the  Seminole.  Her 
color  is  dark  and  very  rich,  but  it's  more  the  coloring  of 
the  Spanish  father  than  the  Seminole  mother.  Alto 
gether,  she's  more  Spanish  than  Indian,  I  take  it,  though 
she's  a  tantalizing  combination  of  each  in  instinct  Her 
grace  is  wild  and  Indian  —  and  she  walks  lightly  and 
softly  like  a  doe.  Ann,  her  face  haunts  me. 

Young  as  she  is,  this  Nanca  of  whom  I  have  writ 
ten  so  much  to  you,  has,  they  tell  me,  had  a  most  roman 
tic  history.  With  her  beauty  it  was  of  course  inevi 
table.  Men  are  fools.  At  eighteen,  urged  into  proud 
revolt  against  her  Seminole  suitors  by  her  father,  who 


Letters  from  Norman  Westfall  417 

for  all  his  singular  way  of  life  can  not  forget  his  white 
heritage,  she  married  a  young  foreigner  who  came  into 
the  Glades  hunting.  He  seems  to  have  been  utterly 
without  ties  and  decided  to  live  with  the  Indians  in  the 
manner  of  the  Spaniard.  A  year  or  so  later,  a  young 
artist  imitator  of  Catlin's  made  his  way  to  the  Seminole 
village  with  a  guide.  He  had  been  traveling  about  among 
the  Indians  of  the  reservations  painting  Indian  types, 
and  had  heard  of  this  old  turbaned  tribe  buried  in  the 
Everglades.  Nanca's  beauty  must  have  driven  him 
quite  mad,  I  think.  At  any  rate  he  wooed  and  won. 
Nanca  begged  the  young  foreigner  to  divorce  her,  which 
he  did.  The  Seminole  divorce  custom  is  lenient  when 
the  marriage  is  childless.  The  artist,  I  fancy,  was 
merely  a  wild,  reckless,  inconstant  sort  of  chap  who  did 
not  regard  the  simple  Seminole  marriage  tie  as  binding. 
After  the  birth  of  his  daughter,  a  tiny  little  elf  whom 
Nanca  has  named  "  Red-winged  Blackbird,"  he  tried  to 
run  away,  and  the  Indians  killed  him. 

Red- winged  Blackbird!  Keela  then  was  the 
child  of  the  artist ! 

The  old  Spaniard  in  his  gruff  and  haughty  way  has 
been  kind  to  Grant  and  me.  He's  not  well  —  some 
obscure  cardiac  trouble  from  which  he  suffers  at  times 
most  horribly.  He  has  confided  to  me  a  singular  secret. 
The  young  foreigner  who  divorced  Nanca  is  the  crown 
prince  of  some  obscure  little  mountain  kingdom  called 
Houdania.  His  name  is  Theodomir.  He  had  wild  rev- 


418        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

olutionary  notions,  hated  royalty  and  fled  at  the  death 
of  his  father.  But  America  and  its  boasted  liberty  had 
cankers  and  inequalities  too,  and  heartsick,  Theodomir 
roamed  about  until  at  length  on  a  hunting  trip  he  came 
into  the  village  of  the  Seminoles.  Here  was  the  com 
munistic  organization  of  which  this  aristocratic  young 
socialist  had  dreamed  —  tribal  ownership  of  lands, 
cooperative  equality  of  men  and  women  —  no  jails,  no 
poor-houses,  no  bolts  or  bars  or  locks  —  honorable 
old  age  and  perfect  moral  order  without  law.  What 
wonder  that  he  lingered  ?  Now  that  he  is  divorced  from 
Nanca  he  wanders  about  from  tribe  to  tribe.  I'd  like  to 
see  him. 

•  ••••• 

Ann,  I  must  write  the  truth.  The  face  of  this  Span 
ish  girl  haunts  me  day  and  night.  There  is  a  madness 
in  my  blood.  I  wish  you  were  here!  I  am  tormented 
by  terrible  doubts  and  misgivings.  If  Dad  were  not  so 
intolerant ! 

•  ••••• 

Nanca  has  fled  from  the  Indian  village  with  Grant  and 
me.  Oh,  Ann,  it  had  to  come!  I  lost  my  head.  The 
old  Spaniard  died  three  days  ago.  That  was  the  cause 
of  it  Nanca's  grief  was  wild  and  terrible.  Her  wail 
ing  dirge  was  all  Indian,  yet  immediately  she  cried  out 
that  the  Indian  way  of  life  for  her  was  impossible  with 
out  her  father.  She  begged  me  to  take  her  away.  And 
yet  —  Oh,  Ann,  Ann!  How  could  I  take  that  other 
man's  child?  We  left  her  outside  the  old  chief's  wig 
wam. 


Letters  from  Norman  Westfall  419 

Much  as  I  have  scoffed  at  marriage,  I  have  married 
Nanca.  Grant  insisted.  He  was  a  little  bitter.  I  do  not 
know  what  makes  him  so. 

I  have  seen  Dad.  We  quarreled  bitterly.  Agatha 
was  there  with  him.  I  can  hardly  write  what  followed. 
By  some  God-forsaken  twist  of  Fate,  a  jealous,  sullen- 
eyed  young  Indian  who  had  loved  Nanca  and  had  been 
spurned  by  her  father,  followed  us  relentlessly  from  the 
Glades  to  St.  Augustine.  He  told  Dad  that  Nanca  had 
not  been  married  to  the  artist  —  that  she  was  a  mother 
and  not  a  wife  —  and  Dad  believed  it.  I  told  him  pa 
tiently  enough  that  there  is  no  ceremony  among  the 
Seminoles  —  that  the  man  goes  forth  to  the  home  of  the 
girl  at  the  setting  of  the  sun,  and  that  he  is  then  as 
legally  her  husband  as  if  all  the  courts  in  Christendom 
had  tied  the  knot.  Dad  can  not  see  it.  I  shall  be  in 
New  York  in  two  weeks.  Nanca  and  I  are  going  to 
Spain.  I  can  not  forget  Dad's  white,  horror-struck 
face  nor  what  he  said.  He  is  bigoted  and  unjust.  God 
help  me,  I  hope  that  I  may  never  set  eyes  upon  him 
again ! 

•  ••••• 

We  have  been  very  happy  here  in  Spain.  I  have  run 
across  a  wonderful  old  room  in  a  Spanish  castle.  Ceil 
ing,  doors,  fireplace,  paintings,  table,  chairs  and  lan 
terns,  I  am  transplanting.  What  a  setting  for  Nanca ! 

We  are  sailing  for  home.  Nanca  is  not  so  well  as  I 
could  hope.  She  grieves,  I  think,  for  the  little  girl  in 
Florida.  There  are  times  when  I  am  bitterly  jealous  of 
those  two  other  men. 


420        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

There  was  a  lapse  of  weeks  in  the  letters.  Then 
came  a  long  one  from  New  York. 

Grant  came  that  night  just  after  you  had  gone.  He 
has  been  with  me  a  week.  His  notions  are  more  erratic 
than  ever.  For  instance,  last  night,  while  we  were  smok 
ing,  I  told  him  the  story  of  Prince  Theodomir.  He  was 
greatly  interested. 

"  What  a  chance !  "  said  he  softly.  "  What  a  chance, 
Norman,  for  wild  commotion  in  your  ridiculous  little 
court.  I've  been  there.  It's  a  kingdom  of  crazy  patri 
ots  who  grant  freedom  of  marital  choice  to  their  princes 
to  freshen  and  strengthen  the  royal  blood;  and  they 
boast  an  ancient  line  of  queens  wiser  than  Catherine  of 
Russia.  A  hidden  paper  purporting  to  be  a  deathbed 
statement  of  Prince  Theodomir's  —  this  little  daughter 
of  Nanca  and  the  artist  —  and,  Lord !  what  complica 
tions  we  could  have  immediately.  How  easily  she  might 
have  been  the  child  of  Theodomir  and  a  princess !  " 

And  sitting  there  by  the  table,  Ann,  he  drew  up  an 
ingenious  document  couched  in  the  stilted  English  of  a 
foreigner.  Like  most  of  Grant's  notions,  it  was  infer 
nally  clever.  It  suggested  that  my  marriage  to  Nanca 
had  been  childless  and  that  we  had  brought  a  child  — 
the  daughter  of  Theodomir  and  Nanca  —  away  from 
the  Indian  village  and  had  reared  her  with  my  name. 
Then  he  showed  me  with  a  laugh  where  three  conflicting 
meanings  might  be  read  from  the  stilted  phrasing  and 
eccentric  punctuation. 

"  Drop  that,  old  man,"  said  he,  "  into  your  chauvinis- 


Letters  from  Norman  Westfall  421 

tic  little  Punch  and  Judy  court  along  with  the  name  of 
the  missing  Theodomir  and  watch  the  blaze !  " 

After  all,  I  do  not  think  we  will  stay  here  in  New  York. 
Nanca  is  not  at  all  well.  She  longs  for  trees  and  the 
open  country.  We  are  coming  up  to  the  lodge. 

•  ••••• 

I'm  glad  Dad  sent  for  you.  I  think  he  is  growing 
fonder  of  Carl,  though  of  course  his  prejudices  will 
probably  always  flash  out  now  and  then.  .  .  .  He's 
fond  of  us  both,  Ann,  for  all  he  raves  so.  No  word  of 
Grant  since  that  night  of  which  you  told  me. 
I  am  sorry. 

•  ••••• 

You  tell  me  Grant  has  written  to  you.  Tell  him  when 
you  write  —  to  write  to  me.  I  miss  him. 

•  ••••• 

Grant  has  sent  me  a  giant  pair  of  candlesticks  from 
Spain.  They  are  six  feet  tall,  of  age-old  wood  and 
Spanish  carving.  He  begs  that  they  may  stand  in  the 
Spanish  room  and  makes  some  incoherent  reference  to 
you  in  connection  with  them,  out  of  which  I  can't  for  the 
life  of  me  extract  a  grain  of  sense.  If  you  could  have 
cared  for  him  a  little,  Ann ! 

•  ••••• 

i< 

I  will  not  take  this  thing  that  Fate  has  whipped  into 
my  face  with  a  scornful  jeer.  Nanca  is  dead!  Her  life 
went  out  with  the  life  she  gave  my  daughter.  Oh,  Ann, 
Ann,  why  are  you  not  with  me  now  when  I  need  you 


422        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

most.  After  all  what  is  this  mortal  tegument  but  a  shell 
which  a  man  sloughs  off  in  eternal  evolution.  Outside, 
the  moon  is  very  bright  upon  the  lake.  The  "  Mulberry 
Moon/'  Nanca  called  it,  and  loved  its  light.  It  shines  in 
at  her  window  now,  but  she  can  not  see  it.  Ann,  because 
the  moon  is  so  bright  to-night  —  because  the  name  of 
the  moon,  goddess  bears  within  it  your  name  —  let  the 
name  of  my  poor,  motherless  little  girl  be  Diane.  Nanca 
called  her  "  Little  Red-winged  Blackbird !  "  I  believe  at 
the  end  she  was  thinking  of  the  little  girl  we  left  in  the 
Indian  village.  They  are  very  much  alike.  Poor 
Nanca! 

The  writing  broke  off  with  a  wild  scrawl. 
With  agonized  eyes  Diane  pushed  the  letters 
away  and  stared  at  the  quiet  firelit  room,  build 
ing  again  within  its  log  walls  the  tragedy  of  her 
father's  death.  He  had  lain  there  by  the  fire,  his 
life  snuffed  out  like  a  candle  by  his  own  hand. 
The  broken-hearted  old  man  down  South  had 
carried  the  child  of  his  son  away,  fiercely  denied 
the  Indian  blood,  and  pledged  Aunt  Agatha  to 
the  keeping  of  the  secret.  And  this  was  the  net 
that  had  driven  Carl  to  the  verge  of  insanity  and 
sent  Themar  to  his  death  in  a  Florida  swamp ! 

There  was  no  princess  —  no  child  of  the  exiled 
Theodomir.  The  paper  stuffed  in  the  candle 
stick  in  a  reckless  moment  had  been  but  the 
ingenious  figment  of  a  man's  brain  for  the  enter- 


Letters  from  Norman  Westfall    423 

lainment  of  an  hour.  The  old  chief  and  Sho- 
caw  with  their  broken  tale  to  Philip  had  but 
tangled  the  net  the  more.  As  the  blood  of  the 
Indian  mother  had  driven  Diane  forth  to  the 
forest,  so  had  the  blood  of  the  artist  father  driven 
Keela  forth  from  the  Indian  village,  a  wanderer 
apart  from  her  people,  and  Fate  had  relentlessly 
knotted  the  threads  of  their  lives  in  a  Southern 
pine  wood. 


CHAPTER  LIII 

BY   MIC-CO'S   POOL 

TO  THE  dark,  old-fashioned  house  in  St.  Au 
gustine  in  which  Baron  Tregar  was  a  "  pay 
ing  guest"  came  one  twilight,  a  man  for  whom 
compassionately  he  had  waited.  His  visitor  was 
sadly  white  and  tired,  with  heavy  lines  about  his 
sullen  mouth  and  the  dust  of  the  highway  upon 
his  motoring  rig.  There  was  no  fire  in  his  eyes; 
rather  a  stupid  apathy  which  in  a  man  with  less 
strength  about  the  mouth  and  chin  might  easily 
have  become  commonness. 

"Tregar,"  he  said  with  an  effort,  "you  told 
me  to  come  when  I  needed  you.  I  am  here.  I 
can  not  see  my  way  —  " 

Tregar  held  out  his  hand  in  silence.  Only  he 
knew  the  sacrifice  of  insolent  pride  that  had 
brought  his  guest  so  low. 

Ronador  took  his  hand  and  reddened. 

"  My  father  rightly  counts  upon  your  loyalty," 
he  choked  and  walked  away  to  the  window. 

Suddenly  he  wheeled  with  blazing  eyes  of 
agony. 

"Why  must  that  old  horrible  remorse  grind 
and  tear!"  he  cried,  "now  when  I  can  not  bear 
it!  It  is  keener  and  crueler  now  than  it  was  that 

424 


By  Mic-co's  Pool  425 

day  when  you  found  me  in  the  forest.  Every 
new  twist  of  this  damnable  mess  has  been  a  barb 
tearing  the  old  wound  open  afresh.  And  now  — 
I  —  I  can  not  even  find  Miss  Westfall.  I  have 
motored  over  the  roads  in  vain.  The  van  is 
gone  from  the  lake  shore.  It  seemed  that  I 
must  make  one  final  desperate  effort  to  make 
her  understand  —  " 

With  the  memory  of  the  eyes  of  Diane  and 
Philip  flashing  messages  of  utter  trust  that  day 
beneath  the  trees,  the  Baron  sighed. 

"Ronador,"  he  said  kindly,  "it  would  have 
been  in  vain." 

"  And  now,"  Ronador  moistened  his  pallid  lips, 
"  there  is  a  rumble  of  war  from  Galituria." 

"Yes,"  said  Tregar  sadly,  "Themar  was  a 
traitor." 

"  I  told  him  much,"  said  Ronador,  great  drops 
of  moisture  standing  forth  upon  his  forehead. 
"  It  seemed  that  I  must,  to  make  him  understand 
the  urgent  need  of  silencing  Granberry  forever. 
He  cabled  the  news  to  Galituria  and  sold  it.  I 
am  ill  and  discouraged.  There  is  fever  in  my 
blood,  Tregar,  from  this  climate  of  eternal  sum 
mer —  a  fever  in  my  head — " 

Tregar  stroked  his  beard. 

"  There  is  a  doctor,"  he  said  quietly,  "  of  whom 
Poynter  has  told  me  much  —  a  doctor  who  healed 
Cranberry's  mind  as  well  as  his  body.  I  had 


426        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

thought  to  go  to  him  myself — to  rest.  I,  too,  am 
tired,  Ronador.  One  goes  to  a  little  hamlet  and 
an  old  man  guides  by  a  road  to  the  south  into 
the  Everglades.  Let  us  go  there  together." 

"  No! "  said  Ronador  sullenly.  "  Let  us  rather 
go  home.  I  am  sick  of  this  land  of  insolent  men 
like  Cranberry  and  Poynter,  who  bend  the  knee 
to  no  man." 

"  You  would  go  back  then,  ill,  sullen,  resentful, 
with  the  news  that  we  must  lay  before  your 
father?  By  Heaven,  no!  "  thundered  the  Baron 
with  one  of  his  infrequent  outbursts.  "Let  us 
go  back  smiling,  for  all  we  have  lost,  and  seek  to 
tell  of  this  child  of  Theodomir  with  what  grace 
we  can  muster.  Poynter  is  at  the  bedside  of  his 
father.  Cranberry  has  gone  to  learn  the  tale 
of  the  other  candlestick.  These  men,  Ronador, 
we  must  see  again  before  we  sail.  In  the  mean 
time,  there  is  Poynter's  physician." 

"Very  well,"  said  Ronador,  goaded  to  a  sud 
den  consent  by  a  fevered  wave  of  nausea  and 
shaking,  "let  us  go  to  him." 

So  came  Prince  Ronador  and  the  Baron  to 
the  island  lodge  of  Mic-co. 

Though  Ronador  in  the  first  disorder  of  rebel 
lious  mind  and  body,  had  fancied  himself  sicker 
than  he  really  was,  he  was  suffering  more  now 
than  even  Tregar  guessed.  The  last  stage  of  the 
journey  to  a  man  of  less  indomitable  grit  and 


By  Mic-co's  Pool  427 

courage  would  have  been  impossible.  It  was 
no  sickness  of  the  mind  alone.  His  body  was 
wildly  ravaged  by  a  fever. 

Through  a  dizzy  blur  which  distorted  every  ob 
ject  and  which  frowningly  he  sought  to  drive 
away  with  clenched  hands,  he  stared  at  the  lodge, 
stared  at  Keela,  stared  at  the  grave  and  quiet 
face  of  Mic-co.  He  was  still  staring  vaguely 
about  him  when  night  curtained  the  lilied  pool 
and  the  stars  flashed  brightly  overhead. 

"I  am  not  ill,  Tregar!"  he  insisted  curtly. 
"Let  me  rest  by  the  pool.  There  is  peace  here 
and  I  am  tired.  We  traveled  rapidly  —  " 

Nevertheless,  for  all  his  feverish  denial,  his 
desperate  attempts  to  keep  to  the  thread  of  des 
ultory  talk  were  pitiful.  He  frowned  heavily, 
began  his  sentences  slowly  and  trailed  off  inco 
herently  to  a  halt  and  silence. 

The  Baron  turned  compassionately  away  from 
him  to  Mic-co  with  a  question. 

"Names,"  said  Mic-co,  "are  nothing  to  me, 
Baron  Tregar.  They  are  merely  a  part  of  that 
great  world  from  which  I  live  apart.  I  am  a 
Heidelberg  man,  since  you  feel  sufficiently  inter 
ested  to  inquire.  Though  my  choice  of  a  profes 
sion  was  merely  a  careless  desire  to  know  some 
one  thing  well,  I  have  never  regretted  it." 

"I  —  I  beg  your  pardon,"  stammered  the 
Baron  and  glanced  keenly  at  Mic-co. 


428        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"  It  is  a  habit  of  mine,"  hinted  Mic-co,  "  to  take 
what  confidence  a  man  may  offer  and  let  him 
withhold  what  he  will." 

" There  is  nothing  to  withhold! "  flashed  Rona- 
dor  with  sudden  fierceness.  "  Why  do  you  speak 
of  it?" 

Mic-co  thought  of  a  white-faced  young  fellow 
who  had  stubbornly  refused  to  accept  his  hospi 
tality,  one  morning  beneath  the  live  oaks,  until 
he  might  name  aloud  his  offenses  in  the  sight  of 
God  and  Man.  This  man  before  him,  sweeping 
rapidly  into  the  black  gulf  of  delirium,  was  of  a 
different  caliber. 

By  the  pool  Ronador  leaped  suddenly,  his  face 
quite  colorless  save  where  the  flame  of  fever 
burned  in  his  cheeks. 

*  That  Voice !  "  he  said,  standing  in  curious  at 
titude  of  listening.  "  You  hear  it,  Tregar?  Al 
ways —  always  it  comes  so  in  the  quietest  hours. 
Tell  him!  Tell  him!  Why  should  I  tell  him? 
What  is  he  to  me  ?  I  may  not  purchase  relief  at 
the  price  of  any  man's  respect.  Only  Tregar 
knows.  Hush!  —  In  God's  name,  hush!  Thou 
shalt  not  kill!  Thou  shalt  not  kill !"  He  seemed, 
without  conscious  effort,  to  be  repeating  the 
words  of  this  Voice  with  which  he  held  this  terri 
ble  communion,  and  waved  Tregar  back  with  an 
imperious  gesture  of  defiance.  Facing  Mic-co  he 
flung  out  his  arm. 


By  Mic-co's  Pool  429 

"I  am  a  murderer  in  the  sight  of  God  and 
Man ! "  he  choked.  "  I  murdered  my  cousin  The- 
odomir  for  a  dream  of  empire.  I  can  not  forget 
—  Oh,  God!  I  can  not  forget.  The  Voice  bids 
me  tell!" 

He  dropped  wildly  to  his  knees,  his  eyes  im 
ploring. 

"Oh,  God!"  he  prayed  with  pallid  lips,  "hear 
this,  my  prayer.  I  have  paid  in  black  hours  of 
bitter  suffering.  I  have  played  and  lost  and  the 
fire  of  life  is  but  ashes  in  my  hand.  Give  me 
peace  —  peace!" 

He  stayed  so  long  upon  his  knees  that  Tregar 
touched  him  gently  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Ronador,"  he  said  gently.  "  Come.  You  are 
very  ill  and  know  not  what  you  say." 

Ronador  staggered  blindly  to  his  feet.  Once 
more  he  waved  the  Baron  aside  and  took  up  his 
terrible  dialogue  with  the  inner  Voice. 

"The  Voice!  The  Voice!"  he  whispered. 
"  Thou  shalt  not  kill!  Thou  shalt  not  kill !  You 
lie!"  he  cried  in  a  sudden  outburst  of  terrible 
fierceness.  "  He  was  not  a  fool.  He  loved  men 
more  than  the  mockery  and  cant  of  courts.  He 
loved  —  he  trusted  me — and  I  betrayed  him. 
Who  knew  when  he  fled  wildly  away  from  the 
pomp  and  inequalities  he  hated?  I!  Who 
watched  for  his  secret  letters?  I!  Who  came  to 
America  when  his  letter  of  homesick  pleading 


480        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

came?  I!  I!  I!  Who  killed  him  when  con 
science  and  duty  would  have  sent  him  back  to 
the  court  of  his  father?  I,  his  cousin  whom  he 
loved  above  all  men.  You  lie.  I  did  love  him. 
I  was  drunk  with  the  royal  glitter  ahead.  I 
craved  it  even  as  he  hated  it.  Thou  shalt  not  kill  I 
Thou  shalt  not  kill  1  Mercy !  Mercy !  I  can  not 
bear  it." 

He  fell  groveling  upon  the  floor  and  crawled 
to  Mic-co's  feet. 

"The  Voice  bids  me  tell!"  he  whispered, 
clutching  fearfully  at  Mic-co's  hand.  "Twice, 
since,  I  would  have  killed  to  keep  this  thing  of 
the  candlestick  from  creeping  back  and  back 
until  that  thing  of  long  ago  lay  uncovered  and 
I  disgraced  I  .  .  .  Theodomir  hid  in  the  Semi- 
nole  village.  No — no,  you  must  listen  —  the 
Voice  bids  me  tell  or  lose  my  reason.  I  came 
there  at  his  bidding — his  marriage  to  the  Indian 
girl  had  been  unhappy.  He  was  homesick  and 
this  fair  land  of  liberty  had  a  rotten  core.  I 
struck  him  down  and  fled.  You  will  heal  and 
fight  the  Voice—" 

Mic-co  bent  and  raised  the  groveling  figure. 

"Peace!"  he  said,  his  face  very  white.  "We 
will  heal  and  quiet  the  Voice  forever.  Come!" 
Gently  he  led  the  sick  man  away. 

"He  will  sleep  now,  I  think,"  he  said  a  little 
later.  "A  drug  is  best  when  a  Voice  is 
mocking  - 


By  Mic-co's  Pool  431 

The  Baron  leaned  forward  and  caught  Mic- 
co's  arm  in  a  grasp  of  iron. 

"  Who  are  you,"  he  whispered,  "  that  you  suf 
fer  with  him  now?  You  are  white  and  shaking. 
Who  are  you  that  you  know  the  tongue  of  my 
country?" 

Mic-co  sighed. 

"  I,"  said  he  sadly,  "  am  that  man  he  thought 
to  kill!" 

White-faced,  the  Baron  stared  at  the  snowy 
beard  and  hair  and  the  fine,  dark  eyes. 

"Theodomir!"  he  whispered  brokenly.  "The- 
odomir!  It  —  it  can  not  be." 

He  fell  to  pacing  the  floor  in  violent  agitation. 

"  The  eyes  are  quieter,"  he  said  at  length  with 
an  effort,  "but  the  hair  and  beard  so  white!  I 
would  not  have  guessed — I  would  not  have 
guessed!"  Again  he  stared. 

"  Are  you  man  or  saint,"  he  cried  at  last,  "  that 
you  can  forgive  as  I  have  seen  your  eyes  for 
give  to-night?" 

"  May  a  man  look  upon  such  remorse  as  that," 
asked  Mic-co,  "and  not  forgive?  I  loved  him 
greatly.  Had  I  loved  him  less  —  had  I  loved 
her  less — that  Indian  wife  who  had  no  love  in 
her  heart  for  me,  this  hair  of  mine  would  not  have 
turned  snow-white  when  the  Indians  were  fan 
ning  the  flickering  spark  of  life  into  a  blaze 
again." 


482        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"There  is  peace  in  your  face,"  said  Tregar 
a  little  bitterly,  "  and  none  of  the  old  fretful 
discontent.  Have  you  no  single  thought  of  re 
gret  for  that  fair  land  of  ours  you  left?  " 

"  For  that  fatherland  of  rugged  mountain  and 
silver  waterfall — yes!"  cried  Theodomir  with 
sudden  fire.  "  For  the  festering  core  of  imper 
ialism  that  darkens  its  beauty  with  sable  wing — 
no!  No  single  thought  of  regret.  How  pitiful 
and  absurd  our  Lilliputian  game  of  empire! 
What  man  is  better  than  another?  Tolstoi  and 
Buddha,  they  are  the  men  who  knew.  Was  not 
my  wildest  error,"  he  demanded  reverting  afresh 
to  the  other's  reproach,  "  that  homesick  letter  that 
brought  him  to  my  side?  Peace  came  to  me, 
Tregar,  in  building  this  lodge,  in  working  in 
the  field  and  hunting,  in  doctoring  these  primi 
tive  people  who  saved  my  life,  in  teaching  the 
child  of  my  Indian  wife  — 

"The  child  of  your  wife!  You  mean  your 
daughter?" 

"  I  have  no  child,"  said  Theodomir.  '  The  girl 
you  saw  to-night  is  my  foster  daughter,  the  child 
of  my  wife  and  the  man  for  whose  whim  she 
begged  me  to  divorce  her." 

"  No  child  I "  exclaimed  the  Baron  with  a  sick 
ening  flash  of  realization.  "  My  poor  Ronador!  " 

"My  kindness  to  her,"  said  Mic-co,  "was  at 
first  a  discipline.  Her  mother  deserted  her  and 


By  Mic-co's  Pool  433 

the  old  chief  granted  me  half  her  life.  I  could 
not  bear  the  touch  of  her  hands  or  the  look  in  her 
eyes  for  many  months,  but  through  her,  Tregar, 
at  last  I  learned  peace  and  forgiveness  and  for 
bearance,  as  men  should.  I  built  the  lodge  for 
her  and  me.  I  taught  her  the  ways  of  her  white 
father.  I  made  myself  proficient  in  the  English 
tongue  that  those  traders  and  hunters  and 
naturalists  who  stray  here  might  guess  nothing 
of  my  origin.  I  shall  never  again  leave  the  peace 
and  quiet  of  this  island  home.  And  you  and  I, 
Tregar,  must  quiet  that  Voice  forever!" 

"  Is  that  possible?  "  choked  Tregar. 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Mic-co.  "  I  think  we  may 
some  day  send  him  home  with  the  Voice  quieted 
forever  and  the  remorse  and  suffering  healed. 
Had  I  thought  he  was  strong  enough  to  bear  it, 
I  would  have  told  him  to-night." 

"Let  me  tell  you,"  said  Tregar  with  strong 
emotion,  "  how  I  found  him  in  the  forest,  when 
years  back  I  came  to  know  this  secret  I  have  tried 
so  hard  to  keep  for  him.  I  had  been  hunting  with 
the  King  and  lost  my  way  in  the  forests  of  Griin- 
wald.  I  found  him  there  in  the  thickest  part  — 
naked,  slashing  his  body  wildly  with  a  knife  in  an 
agony  of  remorse  and  penance  and  the  most  ter 
rible  grief  I  have  ever  witnessed.  Before  he  well 
knew  what  he  was  about  he  had  blurted  forth  the 
whole  pitiful  story  —  that  he  had  killed  his  cousin 


484        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

in  a  moment  of  passion  —  that  he  must  scourge 
and  torture  his  body  to  discipline  his  soul.  I  —  I 
shall  not  forget  his  face." 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  Mic-co.  "My  poor 
cousin ! " 

They  wheeled  suddenly  at  a  choking  sound  in 
the  doorway.  Some  wild  memory  of  the  Griin- 
wald  had  surged  through  the  fevered  brain  of  the 
sick  man.  His  clothes  were  gone,  his  body  slashed 
cruelly  in  a  dozen  places.  He  had  torn  down  the 
buckskin  curtain  at  his  window  and  bound  it 
about  his  body  in  the  fashion  of  earlier  ages. 
How  long  he  had  stood  there  in  the  doorway  they 
did  not  know.  Now  as  they  turned,  he  rushed 
forward  and  flung  himself  with  a  great  heart 
broken  sob  at  the  feet  of  his  cousin. 

"Theodomir!    Theodomir!"  he  cried. 

Tregar  turned  away  from  the  sound  of  his  ter 
rible  sobbing. 


CHAPTER  LIV 

ON  THE  WESTFALL  LAKE 

HURRYING  clouds  curtained  the  silver 
shield  of  a  full  moon  and  found  themselves 
fringed  gloriously  with  ragged  light.  It  was  a 
lake  of  white,  whispering  ghosts  locking  spec 
tral  branches  in  the  wind,  of  slumbering  lilies 
rustled  by  the  drift  of  a  boat ;  a  lake  of  checkered 
lights  and  shadows  fitfully  mirroring  stars  at  the 
mercy  of  the  moon-flecked  clouds.  On  the 
western  shore  of  the  wide,  wind-ruffled  sheet  of 
water,  on  a  wooded  knoll,  glimmered  the  lights  of 
the  village. 

To  Diane,  stretched  comfortably  upon  the 
cushions  of  the  boat,  which  had  drifted  idly  about 
since  early  twilight,  the  night's  sounds  were  in 
describably  peaceful.  The  lap  and  purl  of  water, 
the  rustle  of  birch,  the  call  of  an  owl  in  the  forest, 
the  noise  of  frog  and  tree  toad  and  innumerable 
crickets,  they  were  all,  paradoxically  enough,  the 
wildwood  sounds  of  silence. 

With  a  sigh  the  girl  presently  paddled  in  to 
shore.  As  she  moored  her  boat,  the  moon  swept 
majestically  from  the  clouds  and  shone  full  upon 
a  second  boatman  paddling  briskly  by  the  lily 
beds.  The  boat  came  on  with  a  musical  swirl  of 

435 


486        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

water;  the  bareheaded  boatman  waved  his  hand 
lazily  to  the  girl  standing  motionless  upon  the 
moonlit  wharf,  and  as  lazily  floated  in. 

"  Hello! "  he  called  cheerfully. 

The  moon,  doomed  to  erotic  service,  was  again 
upon  the  head  of  Mr.  Poynter. 

"It's  the  milkman's  boat!"  explained  Philip 
smiling.  "  He's  a  mighty  decent  chap." 

Diane's  face  was  as  pale  as  a  lily. 

"How  did  you  know?"  she  asked,  but  her 
eyes,  for  Philip,  were  welcome  enough. 

"  I  saw  Carl,"  said  he,  dexterously  rounding  to 
a  point  at  her  feet.  "  He  told  me." 

He  lazily  rocked  the  boat,  met  her  troubled 
glance  with  frank  serenity  and  said  with  his  eyes 
what  for  the  moment  his  laughing  lips  withheld. 

"  Come,  row  about  a  bit,"  he  said  gently. 
"  There's  a  lot  to  tell  —  " 

"The  other  candlestick?" 

"  That,"  said  Philip  as  he  helped  her  in,  "  and 
more." 

The  boat  shot  forth  into  the  moonlit  water. 

"And  your  father,  Philip?" 

"Better,"  said  Philip  and  feathered  his  oars 
conspicuously  in  a  moment  of  constraint.  Then 
flushing  slightly,  he  met  her  glance  with  his  usual 
frank  directness.  "  Dad  and  I  had  quarreled, 
Diane,"  he  said  quietly,  "and  he  was  fretting. 
And  now,  though  the  fundamental  cause  of 


On  the  Westfall  Lake          437 

grievance  still  remains,  we're  better  friends. 
Ames,  the  doctor,  said  that  helped  a  lot."  He 
was  silent.  "A  dash  of  Spanish,"  he  began 
thoughtfully,  "  a  dash  of  Indian,  and  the  blood  of 
the  old  southern  cavaliers  —  it's  a  ripping  com 
bination  for  loveliness,  Diane!" 

Not  quite  so  pale,  Diane  glanced  demurely  at 
the  moon. 

'Yes,  I  know,"  nodded  Philip  with  slightly 
impudent  assurance;  "but  the  moon  is  kind  to 
lovers." 

"  Tell  me,"  begged  Diane  with  a  bright  flush, 
"  about  the  second  candlestick." 

Somewhat  reluctantly,  with  the  moon  urging 
him  to  madness,  Philip  obeyed.  To  Diane  his 
words  supplied  the  final  link  in  the  chain  of 
mystery. 

"  And  Satterlee's  yacht,"  finished  Philip,  lean 
ing  on  his  oars,  "was  laid  up  in  Hoboken  for 
repairs.  Carl  phoned  his  attorneys." 

'  You  spoke  of  seeing  Carl? " 

'Yes.  He  was  with  his  father  then.  Tele 
graphed  me  Monday.  I  have  yet  to  see  such  glow 
and  warmth  in  the  faces  of  men.  They're  going 
back  to  Mic-co's  lodge  together  for  a  while. 
Odd ! "  he  added  thoughtfully.  "  I've  known  Sat- 
terlee  for  years,  a  quiet  chap  of  wonderful  kind 
liness  and  generosity.  But  I've  heard  Dad  tell 


438        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

mad  tales  of  his  reckless  whims  when  he  was 
younger." 

"And  the  first  paper?" 

"  Satterlee  had  almost  forgotten  it.  It's  so 
long  ago.  If  he  thought  at  all  of  its  discovery  it 
was  to  doubt  any  other  fate  for  it  than  a  wastei 
paper  basket  or  a  fire.  Anything  else  was  too 
preposterous.  But  he  brooded  a  lot  over  the 
other.  The  most  terrible  results  of  his  foolhardy 
whim  Carl  pledged  me  not  to  tell  him.  Says  the 
blame  is  all  his  and  he'll  shoulder  it.  What  little 
we  did  reveal,  horrified  Satterlee  inexpressibly* 
You  see  he'd  found  the  candlesticks  in  a  ruined 
castle.  They  were  sadly  battered  and  he  con 
signed  them  to  a  queer  old  wood-carver  to  patch 
up.  In  the  patching,  the  shallow  wells  came  to 
light,  packed  with  faded,  musty  love  letters  from 
some  young  Spanish  gallant  to  somebody's  incon 
stant  wife,  and  the  carver  spoke  of  them.  Sat 
terlee  impetuously  bade  him  halt  his  work  and 
wrote  a  wild  letter  to  Ann  Westf  all  begging  her 
to  let  him  hide  the  truth  in  the  well  of  the  candle 
stick  with  the  forlorn  hope  that  one  day  Carl 
might  know.  This  she  granted.  Later  he  had 
the  candlesticks  brought  to  his  apartments  to  be 
sealed  in  his  presence.  As  he  took  from  his  pocket 
the  written  account  intended  for  Carl,  another 
paper  fluttered  to  the  floor.  It  was  the  deathbed 
statement  of  Theodomir  which  in  a  whimsical 


On  the  Westfall  Lake          439 

moment  he  had  drawn  up  for  the  entertainment 
of  your  father.  He  promptly  consigned  it  to  the 
other  well  with  a  shrug.  He  was  greatly  agitated 
and  thought  no  more  about  it." 

"A  careless  act,"  said  Diane,  "to  be  fraught 
with  such  terrible  results."  Then  she  told  the 
history  of  her  father's  letters. 

"  A  persistent  moon! "  said  Philip,  glancing  up 
at  its  mild  radiance.  "And  my  head  is  queer 
again.  Likely  that  very  moon  is  shining  on  the 
minister  in  the  village  yonder." 

"  Likely,"  said  Diane  cautiously. 

The  boat  swept  boldly  toward  the  western 
shore. 

Diane  raised  questioning  eyes  to  his. 

"  Where  are  you  going? "  she  asked. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Philip.  "  I  did  mean  to  tell 
you  before.  It's  abduction." 

"Abduction!" 

"  I'm  to  be  married  in  the  village  to-night. 
And  I'm  awfully  afraid  the  benevolent  old  gen 
tleman  in  the  parsonage  is  waiting.  He  prom 
ised.  Diane,  I  can't  pretend  to  swing  this 
function  without  you!" 

"  Philip ! "  faltered  Diane  and  meeting  his  level, 
imploring  gaze,  laughed  and  colored  deliciously. 

"  A  matrimonial  pirate ! "  said  Philip.  "  That's 
what  I  am.  I've  got  to  be." 


440        Diane  of  the  Green  Van 

"Aunt  Agatha!"  whispered  Diane  despair 
ingly. 

"  I'll  patch  it  up  with  Aunt  Agatha,"  promised 
Philip.  "You  forget  I'm  in  strong  with  her 
now.  Didn't  I  rescue  a  dime  from  the  fish  ? " 

"  And  the  Seminole  girl  makes  her  lover  a  shirt 
—  it's  always  customary — " 

"You've  forgotten,"  said  that  young  prac 
tician  with  his  most  charming  smile,  "  I've  a  shirt 
mended  nicely  along  the  sleeve  and  shoulder  by 
my  lady's  fingers.  Indeed,  dear,  I  have  it  on! 
And  to-morrow — it's  Arcadia  for  you  and 
me—" 

Somehow,  with  the  words  came  a  flood  of  mem 
ory  pictures.  There  was  Philip  by  the  camp 
fire  in  Arcadia  whittling  his  ridiculous  wildwood 
pipe;  Philip  aboard  the  hay-camp  and  Philip  in 
the  garb  of  a  nomadic  Greek;  Philip  unwinding 
the  music-machine  for  the  staring  Indians  and 
building  himself  a  tunic  with  Sho-caw's  sewing 
machine;  Philip  and  a  moon  above  the  marsh  — 

Utter  loyalty  and  unchanging  protection! 
Shaking,  the  girl  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

The  boat's  bow  touched  the  shore;  whistling 
softly,  Philip  leaped  ashore  and  moored  it. 

"  Diane!  "  he  said  gently. 

The  girl  raised  glistening,  glorified  eyes  to  his 
face  and  smiled,  a  radiant  smile  for  all  her  eyes 
were  bright  with  unshed  tears. 

Philip  held  out  his  arms. 


On  the  Westfall  Lake          441 

The  silvered  sheet  of  water  rippled  placidly  at 
their  feet.  There  was  wind  among  the  birches. 
They  watched  the  great  moon  sail  behind  a  cloud 
and  emerge,  flooding  the  sylvan  world  with  light. 

"  Sweetheart,"  said  Philip  suddenly,  "  I 
thought  that  Arcadia  was  back  there  in  Connecti 
cut  by  the  river,  but  it's  here  too!  Dear  little 
gypsy,  it  is  everywhere  that  you  are!  " 

"It  will  be  Arcadia  —  always!"  said  Diane, 
"  for  Arcadia  is  Together-land,  isn't  it,  Philip?" 

The  moon  and  Philip  answered. 


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